


we all fall short of glory

by Kirta



Series: my dreams are not unlike yours [5]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings Online
Genre: 'gdi im here to not-kill everyone thats the point', 'this death is thematically important', (its me), Gen, VS, fight, hey spoilers for the last three chapters of vol3 and all vol4, my doc title was 'guess who can navigate the old forest now', the long-running struggle of 'who is prominent enough to be worth tagging', who exactly is this in reference to? yes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-06
Updated: 2020-03-06
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:27:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 25,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23030920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kirta/pseuds/Kirta
Summary: The war against Mordor escalates and the end is coming faster than you can face it. Helm's Deep to Morannon.
Series: my dreams are not unlike yours [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1562503
Comments: 33
Kudos: 10





	1. crossings

**Author's Note:**

> [title note i probably should have added earlier- borrowed from 'closer to the edge' by thirty seconds to mars]
> 
> i spent. So Much Time just running bree deeds for lp (thus the title) so i could get helm's deep and continue the story. oh and being 5 levels under everything you fight and only 4 makes a massive difference and i died six or seven times during pelennor because of it. do your side quests kids!

There is nothing for it. You must cross the Entwade. Too much is happening and no matter Théoden’s wishes- or Saruman’s, through Wormtongue- you will break your exile. The discussion is long, that night in the cave, with the backdrop of the fall of heavy feet. When Corudan leaves to see the cause he reports that the huorns are returning whence they came. You are not sure if this means it is safe to travel now, but it can hardly be much more dangerous than it has been. There are many things to consider: Nona’s friends from Byre Tor are well enough to travel but even the warriors among them are in no state to move with the speed you will need. You, Horn, Corudan, and Gléowine are exiles on pain of death. Nona and Braigiar, as Dunlending and Dúnadan, will receive little welcome from even the common people between Saruman’s interference and old tensions. Baldgar alone might be able to make his way into Edoras uncontested, but he insists that he must return to Théodred with news of the state of Rohan.

After hours of debate, it is decided. You will go with Horn and Gléowine and cross into the Westemnet and make for Edoras. Nona and Corudan will take the survivors of Byre Tor to Forlaw, and Baldgar and Braigiar will return to their respective companies with news. You swear you will see them again soon. You pack what little there is in the cave and set out together. Nona and Corudan are the first to break off, leading the survivors east while the rest of you press south. Baldgar and Braigiar go next, skirting north of the heart of Rohan in the hopes of making better time back towards the Fords. You watch them go and hope their passage will be safe.

Horn pulls up at the crest of a hill within sight of the crossing and sighs. “This may very well be suicide, my friend.” You can hear Gléowine behind you, arguing with his horse.

“Perhaps,” you say and find a smile for him. “But it is necessary. And if nothing else, we shall make a great enough disturbance to be worth a song or two.” That startles a laugh from him, drifting behind you as you ride for the Entwade crossing.

Edoras is even more magnificent by daylight, for all you are even more unwelcome now.You spy a brilliant white horse that you have seen once before, near the ruins of Thornhope. Háma stops you before the doors of the Golden Hall once again, grumbling of even more troublesome guests. Your suspicion grows. Háma admits you to the hall, though it is perhaps against his better judgement.

You have found Aragorn. You nearly laugh, but the mood in the hall is tense enough already. This is perhaps the last place you expected to meet him, but nevertheless he is here, with Legolas and Gimli and Gandalf, who is putting on quite the display for Théoden’s court. Sun streams through the high windows of the hall and it seems as if many years fall away from the King all at once. Horn and Gléowine watch Gandalf warily but with hope, and as Théoden returns to himself their smiles grow to rival the sunlight. You approach the remains of the Fellowship and they greet you with surprise and tempered joy. There is little new in their tale of the chase from Parth Galen to the eaves of Fangorn, but it is good to hear it from them.

“I was not so far behind you,” you tell them, smiling. Indeed, you think it rather a wonder that it has taken this long for your path to cross theirs again. Your conversation is cut short before it can turn to matters beyond the Fellowship’s fate. There is work to be done in Edoras, suddenly. Gríma’s web must be untangled and the King prepares to ride to war. You try to find them again, Aragorn especially, but you are kept running from one place to another throughout the city and the next you see them they are bidding Edoras farewell and you have missed your chance. You nearly ride after them to tell Aragorn of the ride of the Grey Company, but before you can make it to Valla one of Éowyn’s messengers finds you with word to attend the Lady at Meduseld.

Éowyn fumes at being left behind, but she does her duty as a leader to her people. In the wake of Théoden’s departure with nearly every fighting man in Kingstead, you see more and more of the women of Rohan go about armed. Many of them are practiced in the use of their weapons, but many others look as uncomfortable as you would be wearing a sword.

Among the rumors that infest the city, that of Théodred’s death is the most persistent. So certain are the people of their Prince’s demise that you yourself begin to wonder at times if he has fallen in another battle since your departure. You hope Baldgar returns soon, and with Théodred himself. Too much effort has been spared on the spread of this rumor for your comfort. Éowyn at least seems to believe you when you assure her that her cousin still lives, but few others do. You ride at her request for Underharrow with Horn, who you have seen precious little of since your arrival in Edoras. Gléowine is gone with the King’s company- your party has been reduced to only you two.

There is rumor of the Dead wandering into the valleys from the Dwimorberg. The Lady of Underharrow insists that this cannot be. “The Dead do not leave the mountain,” she says, with all the certainty of one who was knowledge of this truth first-hand. You yourself have experience that says otherwise, though the traitors of the Forsaken Road left their homes in the Mountain long, long ago. There is little that forbids their exit- what surety is there that these are not restless, murderous shades? You ride for the Dark Door with Horn, face grim. Even in all the nights and days of travel, Nona is the only one who has heard your tale of the Forsaken Road even in part, and she is not here. 

“Do you truly think the Dead are encroaching on Underharrow?” Horn asks. He has been trying and failing to get more than the shortest answers from you all day.

“It is not impossible.”

Horn leans over his saddle and watches you from the corner of his eye. “You seem familiar with the Dead. We know only these ones, and they only in old tales.” It is not a question and so you do not answer. Horn sighs. “You really are unnaturally quiet today, friend. What is the matter?”

You are silent for a long time, then, but you gather yourself and tell him piece by piece of the disaster that had claimed half a dozen of the Grey Company.

“We should never have gone there,” you tell the cloudless sky. You shake yourself and kick Valla on. “Let us see the Door and be gone as quickly as we can.”

You see no sign of the Dead this side of the Door. Only orcs in strange costume.

When you return from Ellen Fremedon’s hall you ask, but there has been no sign of Nona or Corudan. You expected them by now, but you tell yourself and Horn that there is no shortage of reasons for their delay and try not to worry. You do not lack for other tasks to hold your attention, at least.

Aldburg is in a sorry state when you arrive. Arcil is too given to pondering questions for a time of war, you think. The walls are so riddled with holes that they are practically useless and the craftsmen are scattered and obstinate, as if they have nothing to gain themselves by having a defensible home. One of them stumbles close to you, belligerent and reeking of spilled alcohol.

“You want us to get back to work?” he laughs. “Make us, then!” He sways closer and your patience snaps. You plant a hand flat on his chest and palm a square-edged runestone with the other. There is a spark and a sizzle and he is thrown backwards several feet, crashing into two other men and sending them all down in a heap. You glare at them and leave without a further word.

Horn laughs to hear the story, though you are far more embarrassed than amused. Talagan would have had several choice things to say to you about responsibility and proper rune use after that, but you suppose it is hardly the first or most irresponsible thing you have done with your craft since your teacher’s death.

You and Horn head into the mountains in search of another contingent of craftsmen, but you are not the first- or even the second- group to find them. Nona’s laughter rings clear off the stone walls when she sees you.

“This is hardly where I expected to find you, but I cannot think of anywhere more fitting!”

Horn stops dead when he sees Nona, and nearly winds up dead in truth before Corudan’s arrows find their marks. Your merriment is rather at odds with the fearful, furtive bearings of the captured craftsmen that you escort from the tunnels. You return them to Aldburg and bid Arcil farewell before returning to Edoras once again.

Gríma’s spies are not yet gone, and you chase this latest one from Edoras to Stoke to Woodhurst and beyond. You have wandered into Woodhurst in the midst of something far more convoluted than you have time to unravel. There is talk of independence from Rohan, and tensions between the Dunlendish and Rohirric populations, and vicious debates over the wisdom of siding with Rohan or the White Hand, or neither, or both. Horn watches the town somewhere between weary and wistful. You sit beside him just beyond the bounds of Woodhurst and watch the sun set over the hills. 

“Maybe Nona and I will have a place here, when this is over.” He idly twists long strands of the plains grass together between his fingers. “That is still far, far off, I think, but it is a pleasant dream.” He finishes the plait in his hands and fastens the ends together so that it forms a circle. He drops it onto your head like a crown. “I am rather out of practice, but I think my sister would still approve,” he says as you examine it critically. You gather a handful of grass for yourself. “We would make these all the time as children.” He watches as you weave together a crown of your own, this one set with tiny yellow wildflowers growing nearby.

“How very elvish,” Horn says dryly when you present it to him.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Always with the flowers.”

“Would true gemstones be preferable for crowns of grass?”

Horn waves a hand. “That is not what I said. It is just...”

“Well, if you dislike it so much, I will give this one to Nona instead.”

“Hers should be blue,” Horn protests immediately. You laugh. Horn rolls his eyes but sets about braiding a second crown jewelled with blue flowers. You put the yellow one on him, then after a moment’s thought braid another circlet for Corudan. You may as well all match, you suppose.

Nona and Corudan find you as the last light vanishes from the western skies. It is time to meet with Hildegard. You crown them both with the grass circlets and follow Herubrand up the mountain. Horn fidgets every time you stop, and at last he turns on you.

“Surely you do not believe in fortunetellers and soothsayers,” he all but begs. You cannot keep a faint smile from your face.

“You have little faith for someone who is here only because of such things.” His face betrays his confusion. “Nona and I would never have come to Stangard were it not for a dream of mine. You likely never would have met her otherwise.” He turns away, troubled. You wonder if perhaps this is not his first encounter with those who deal in foretellings, and that he did not like the last. You soften your voice. “Even among the Wise no prophecy is certain. Some things that seem obvious are not always so straightforward, and not all things will come to pass at all.” It is possible to rewrite what has been decreed.

Horn still storms out of the cavern. Corudan and Herubrand chase after him, leaving you and Nona alone with the old seeress. 

"I see a great battle…" Hildegard speaks. Fire and war and despair. "The list of the dead is long." You can hear Nona's teeth grind together.

"The minstrels weep."

The old woman sees no more. She lives, but she is as unresponsive as any corpse. Nona is breathing hard, the blue-flowered circlet clenched tight in her fists. She turns on you, her eyes bright.

“I will stop this,” she says through her teeth. “Others have fought their fates. Why not I? You will help me.” It is not a question. Neither is it a statement of fact, you think, but rather an order. You smile at her and pry the grass crown gently from her hands.

“Of course I will.” True, others have fought their fates, though it has not always gone well for them. That does not mean you will not try. You set the circlet back on her head. “I do care for Horn too, you know.” She finds a smile, however faint. You pull her into a tight embrace. “I swear, Nona, we will save him.”

Hildegard’s voice reaches your ears as you leave, faintly, nearly beyond even elven hearing. “You cannot save them all. Take care that it does not break you.” All in all, Hildegard’s comment on Nona’s ‘kindling’ is the least memorable part of the visit.

Too soon, your little family splits again. The sign of the Falcon Clan hangs over Brockbridge while word of disaster creeps from the Westfold. The Rohirrim cannot track the Falcons, but Nona can. You are prepared to journey into the wilds after them without a second thought, but the others are troubled by what news has come from the Fords. You at first dismiss the rumors yourself, thinking them more in the same vein as those of Théodred’s death, but Herefara assures you that these are new, only two days old at the absolute outside. The Fords are fallen in truth now. Your thoughts turn to Braigiar and Baldgar, but there is nothing you can do for them now and the Falcons are _here_ and they have much to answer for. Nona will track them and Horn will follow her, but if you and Corudan follow them no one will be able to find what has happened at the Fords. 

You spend the better part of an hour reducing wooden fortifications the Hebog-lûth have been using to cover their nightly assaults to rubble and it makes you feel a little better. Nona finds you and watches until you are satisfied.

“‘We go where we are needed,’” you say with more than a hint of bitterness. You shake your head sharply and turn to Nona. “I wish you luck on your hunt. Keep Horn out of trouble.” Nona laughs once, short.

“I think he would say he is the one keeping me out of trouble.” She holds your eye. “I am sorry you cannot come with us. I know what they took from you and your friends. They will answer for it.” She kisses your forehead and you hug her tight.

“Be careful.”

Your goodbyes are not long. You are all rather practiced at them by now. You stand with Corudan and watch Horn and Nona vanish into the twilight shadows. You track them long after they would have been lost to human sight, wishing that for once things could be simple. Though, this decision you suppose was simple, just not easy or pleasant. You sigh and turn away. You and Corudan will leave soon for Helm’s Deep, where the Rohirrim here all agree the king would have gone if the battle went ill at the Fords.

“Horn asked me to look after you,” Corudan says with a smile as you prepare to depart. “I am to ensure you do not endanger yourself unnecessarily, though how exactly he intended me to stop you I am not certain.” That at last draws a smile from you.

“He has little room to tell others not to take risks.” His willingness to walk brazenly into Edoras after exile would alone be proof of that. Though, you had gone with him, so perhaps he has a point after all.

“It is strange,” you say, as you cross the starlit plains, “that so many assume we are helping here out of some sense of loyalty or duty to Rohan or Théoden.” It is a thought that has been returning to you since your last stop in Edoras. Corudan’s smile catches moonlight.

“They speak to us as if we were any other inhabitants of Rohan.”

And that is it, isn’t it? For all you and Corudan are elves and making no effort to hide that fact, once most of these people get past their first surprise, they do treat you as any other of the Rohirrim, and it is at once strange and welcome. If you owe fealty to anyone on these plains it is to Legolas, but he is as occupied with his own mission as you are with yours. You are helping here because help is needed, and here just happens to be Rohan.

The world is strange sometimes.

You arrive at the outermost defenses of the Hornburg to find the entrance clogged with Riders. You fight your way through the crowd until you find someone who will give you news. The Fords have fallen and the defenders scattered. There has been no word of any of the commanders, Grimbold or the Prince or the lord of the Hornburg. Théoden is here and at a glance seems whole, and you find a number of other Riders you have become familiar with of late. There are several that should be here that are missing, for all the King’s host saw no true battle before retreating here. You make three rounds of the Deeping-comb and the inner fortress, carrying messages and greetings and heavy barrels. Some of the defenders of Helm’s Deep are confident and sure of the strength of their walls, though others hold out no hope that they will see the dawn. You help where you can but you are not convinced it will be enough.

You spend twenty minutes sorting out usable metal from newly delivered barrels with Aragorn, the longest rest you have had today. Your conversation is of the coming battle, of course. It looms in everyone’s minds.

"It was a kindness, to try to cheer those men while your own heart probably needs cheering itself,” he says. You look sharply over at him. “It is weary work to give courage to others." His eyes catch on the wooden star that dangles from your rune-bag, the one Radanir had carved for you before you left the Grey Company. It is the most distinct mark of theirs that you bear- while nearly everything you had worn after Isengard had come from the rangers’ spares, much of it has been replaced or reworked in your journey across Rohan.

“They are looking for you,” you say, before a thousand smaller tasks force you onwards. Aragorn’s eyes jump to your face. “The Grey Company set out from Imladris with intent to find you somewhere in Rohan.” Before Aragorn can question you, shouts call out from the field below. You undo the ties that hold the wooden star and drop it into Aragorn’s hand. “They are close.” 

Whatever caused the commotion, it is resolved before you get there. Corudan is just inside the Dike, saddling Iri. There is still no more word from the Fords, and little enough from the scouts to be concerning. Corudan intends to scout for himself.

“I will be back before the battle is joined, do not worry!” he says, laughing. He is still wearing the grass circlet you braided for him with Horn, though it is yellow and dry now. You watch him pass through the gate in Helm’s Dike and try to ignore the cold lump that settles in your chest for no clear reason. 

It is in fact not long at all before you are riding out on Valla yourself with a handful of other swift Riders, desperate for any sign of the survivors of the battle. You ride for the Fords of the Isen themselves, where the waters are choked with bodies and smoke fills the sky. It is late afternoon by now- if you do not return to Helm’s Deep soon, you will be locked outside with the armies of Isengard.

The fallen are too many for any one person to bury. You recognize many of them from your time with the Prince and his Riders, though you do not see Théodred among them. Valla’s hooves splash through the clouded waters to the islet in the middle of the Isen. Dead Rohirrim blanket the shores, though they are not alone in their rest. Saruman’s forces paid dearly for this victory, but victory they had.

You catch a cough nearby, muffled and hidden. You search among the bodies until it comes again and you find at last a survivor. It is Grimbold, buried under a dozen foes and quite upset about it. His leg is broken, you find, once you pull him free of the corpses with no small amount of cursing on either of your parts. He eyes your runestones uneasily but he does not pull away. You decide to count it as progress of a sort.

“Of all the surprises this past week, this is by far the least expected,” he says through clenched teeth as his bone fuses itself back together. You manage a distracted grin. “What are you doing here?”

“The King retreated to Helm’s Deep after hearing what happened here. A handful of survivors have made it there but there has been no word of you or the other commanders since the battle.” Grimbold stares at you.

“The King retreated? The King rode out? Truly?”

“Yes, just yesterday.” The seed of worry planted by Corudan’s departure- by Horn and Nona’s departure, if you are honest- grows. “How long has it been since the battle here?”

“If my memory can be trusted, yesterday morning.”

You let out a breath. “Did Baldgar make it to you before the fight?” Grimbold shakes his head.

“I have not seen him since he and the ranger left to find you.”

You exhale slowly and shake your head. You cannot spare the time to worry for them now. You suppose it means the letter you sent with Baldgar for Grimbold never made it, either, not that it much matters at this point. You help him to his feet and he stands unsteadily. His leg will hold him, but he will not enjoy it. You make it to the shore, and it takes you several moments to process the fact that Gandalf has appeared with Shadowfax. Erkenbrand is only a heartbeat behind, and soon you are led to the crevasses where the survivors of the Fords shelter. Théodred and Baldgar and all the missing commanders are assembled now, though they have barely two dozen horses among the whole force. Gandalf bids you make for Helm’s Deep before the armies of the White Hand cut you off. You ride as quickly as Valla can take you, bearing with you Théodred’s signet and a short message to his father. Even so the gates nearly shut in your face. It is good this battle will have little in the way of mounted sorties, because Valla is near exhaustion and you are not much better.

Gléowine is in an out of the way corner within the citadel, trying to stay out of the defenders’ path. You collapse next to him and take what rest and food you can while he asks eagerly of the rest of your band from Wildermore and of anything else you have seen since Edoras. His face falls as you tell him that you are the only one here- even Corudan has not returned and you fear for him. The horns sound at the dike as darkness falls. You hand Théodred’s message over to Gléowine and join the defense.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> someone tell est that blowing things up does not count as therapy


	2. glitter

As many things do, it starts simply. Arrows and taunts and rallying cries and a terrible waiting. When things happen, they happen all at once and are over before you know they began. You fall back to the Deeping Wall as the White Hand overruns the Dike and have only a moment to catch your breath before the assault is renewed. You spend as much time patching the defenders back together as fighting, whenever the battle lulls. It is just past midnight. This will be a very long night.

You nearly do not hear Aragorn’s warning in time to flee the wall. As it is, you lose your footing as the Deeping Wall gives way beneath you and land hard, the breath driven out of you by the impact. You shove rubble aside to free those trapped underneath, but long before you can help everyone you are forced to give ground again. Some retreat into the Hornburg but you are among those pushed into the Glittering Caves with Gimli and Éomer. You find nearly an hour of respite before the first hints of battle disturb you and in the sudden still you are nearly asleep where you sit. A young girl no more than twelve approaches you. She is halfway through her story before you even realize she is speaking to you and she restarts impatiently. 

“Villains from Dunland!”

In the depths of Aglarond Lheu Brenin and his warriors stand before you again, and this time there is no one to restrain you. Even if there were, this time there is no choice but to fight. You are tired, after a day of preparing and a night of fighting, and these Hebog-lûth are fresh, their armor unscored.

 _What of Horn and Nona?_ you wonder, as the Brenin hurls words you do not hear. What of their hunt? Gimli answers the Falcons’ challenge, as does the girl, Fritha daughter of Forth. You hear none of it. Lheu Brenin laughs and memories of what you found in the prison-caves in Tûr Morva stir. You have distanced yourself as much as you can but you cannot forget the cells. You lost near half your number there, and you will not soon forgive that hurt.

A great crack echoes down through the caves. You do not have time for this and perhaps it is for the best. You shout out words of power and from the cave floor a spike of stone juts up. Runes burn into the side and it pulses with sparks that refract within the crystals that adorn the cavern. The Falcons cry out and back away, and even Gimli takes a step back with a muttered curse.

Lheu Brenin smashes the stone with a heavy, two-handed blow. It still sparks fitfully, enough to discourage the other Falcons’ approach, but he comes for you. Gimli tries to help- and so does Fritha, to your distracted horror- but the Brenin’s attention is focused on you and he brushes even Gimli’s blows aside.

“I should never have let you leave Tâl Methedras alive,” he snarls. "But these caves will do as well as my own for your grave."

“You already lost your chance to kill me.”

In the end, it is none of your runes that ends it but Elenagil, Prestadír’s dagger, named for his mother, come with you now through many dangers since you left for the Fords. The Brenin trips you and you catch yourself on one knee. The dagger is beside your hand and then it is in Lheu Brenin’s chest as he tries to finish you in one mighty overhand. You back away as he crumples, near as surprised as you. You raise your eyes to the Falcons that remain and your runestones spark in your hand. They retreat into the tunnels, slowly and then at a run. You look back at the Brenin’s corpse and wonder if you should feel something other than tired. Perhaps tomorrow you will. If you make it to tomorrow. Fritha holds Elenagil out to you, face solemn.

“He should never have threatened my family.”

You smile, faint. “Nor mine.” The clamor of battle echoes down to you again. There is no time for rest.

When the next lull comes you force your way back into the Hornburg. Anyone who recognizes you by face or description begs news of friends and family in the caves and though you try you cannot answer them all- and of those you can the answer is often unpleasant. Dawn is coming but still it feels a long ways off. If something does not change soon, you are not sure you will see it. You wander through the crowded citadel, worn beyond thought. You come across a young woman, practically a girl still, far too young to be fighting. She is curled around a bloody gash in her side and hardly stirs at your approach. You do as much as you can for her with your runestones and hope it is enough to take her to the morning. After her you find another, this one an old man. You help him, too, and the next and the next until you lose all sense of time and self. You think you see Braigiar once, and he looks at you with surprise and concern. You are unsure, later, if it was real or not.

You open your eyes to a bright morning, slumped against a barrel inside the keep. Someone laid a cloak over you at some point but you do not remember it, nor do you remember entering the keep proper. You may have slept some but you are still exhausted, as is everyone else who has survived. You sleep properly eventually, after rounding the charred field and speaking with whoever you wander across. The next day you set out with those riding to Isengard for a final confrontation with Saruman. This you would not miss for the world.

Corudan still has not returned. Ents march past your party and you strain for a glimpse of familiar faces, but even your eyes can make out nothing from this distance. If Corudan is among them, or any of the tree-herders you have met in your travels, you cannot find them. You wonder what you will find within the Ring- you will not leave Lothrandir this time but you dread how you might find him. It has been so long since your dream at the Fords and longer still since you truly saw him last, as Saruman's lackeys forced you apart the moment they realized you would rather stay together.

Riders approach on the road behind you and you fall back to meet them. Your pursuit rounds a rocky outcrop and you laugh aloud, high and bright. Éomer is still squinting into the distance beside you when you kick Valla forward, calling behind you as you go.

"Bring Aragorn back! These riders he would like to meet." Éomer calls after you but you pay him no more mind. The lead rider draws up and dismounts and you swing down beside him laughing. Halbarad's smiles, the true ones, are rare things, but you throw your arms around him and he laughs and the sound is warm. There are other voices behind you, familiar all, the rangers and the Rohirrim and dozens of friends. Many are missing and some will never return, but with this reunion so many are gathered close and your heart rejoices in their company. You step away when Aragorn approaches and watch as the Grey Company at last accomplishes the first part of their mission. Radanir leans an elbow on your shoulder and gives you a wry smile.

"Perhaps we should all have gone with Théodred after all.” You think of the quite frankly absurd journey you have taken since parting with the rangers.

“Clearly, it was the shorter path,” you tell him with a straight face. He looks at you. Your mouth twitches and he does not care to stop his laughter. He pulls you into an embrace.

“It is good to see you again.”

It is. You have a thousand things you want to tell them and to ask them, and you know you are not alone in this. Among the many questions is that of Radanir’s path- Braigiar had said he was bound north with Saeradan, who you do not see here. You catch sight of Braigiar himself in the crowd and breathe easier knowing he has returned safely. Radanir takes something from a secure pocket and holds it out to you. It looks like a runestone, one of yours, from an older set.

“Candaith wished this to be returned to you,” Radanir says. Your mind stumbles.

“Candaith?”

“He lives. When Saeradan and I returned to the Forsaken Road for the bodies, we found him.” Before he can continue, voices ring out from the King’s end of the column. You have delayed long enough. Radanir squeezes you once more and finds his own horse. You are slow to return to Valla and lag behind the rest, studying the runestone. This one is often considered a healing rune, and that was the capacity in which you had invoked it, but the meaning of it is somewhere between ‘preserve’ and ‘restore’. You are not sure how it saved Candaith.

Radanir tells you the full story of his brief trip north some time later, of the strange protection that had shrouded Candaith until he and Saeradan had approached. Candaith, still gravely injured, continued north with Saeradan while Radanir returned to the Grey Company with news of many sorts. Joy at the news of Candaith’s survival wars with the knowledge that you had left him there on the Road while you fled the Dead. It is foolish, you know, and pointless too, but you cannot help the regret and think that you are developing quite the habit of leaving friends behind. Knowing that staying would have only ensured your own death- and perhaps Candaith’s in truth, once the rune was no longer anchored in you- does nothing to ease that bitterness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so i did a timeline layout to try n match lotro w the books and fun fact: one week passes between the first battle at the fords and helm's deep, which means somehow you get from the gap to lhanuch to _lorien_ and across all rohan in. one week. wildermore takes at most two days. how many boots must you go thru
> 
> edit: hey the little girl has a name of her own now! nice!


	3. mercy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh hey it's 'sad about rangers' time!

There is little time for the telling of tales as you make your way to Isengard but you trade news in brief as you may. The reactions to Lheu Brenin’s death are varied, but beneath most is a grim acknowledgement of vengeance and justice satisfied. You have missed the Grey Company, and you find yourself missing Horn and Corudan and Nona, too. There has been no word or sign of any of the three and you try not to imagine the worst.

You do not realize you have entered Nan Curunír until you pass the fragmented Pillar of the Hand, marker of the dominion of the White Wizard. The imposing stone walls that formed the Ring of Isengard are gone and only the monolith of the tower of Orthanc remains standing. The rest is shattered and covered in water. There are few survivors to be found and most of them were no prisoners. You fear what it means for Lothrandir. You leave Gandalf and the others of import to treat with Saruman and instead roam the grounds. The paths are too treacherous to ride with any speed and you leave Valla with the Rohirrim who stand just beyond their King and Prince and make your way on foot. You know these roads and you hate the sureness with which you splash your way to the depths. You see others of the Grey Company in their own search- and Baldgar with them- but none of you speak. What is there to say? You will find him, living or not, and you will take him from here.

Your boots are full of water and the rest of you is nearly as soaked. Lothrandir is not in the depths.

You enter another building, one you never had cause to enter during your own time here. It is more intact than many other things here. You enter with Halbarad and Radanir, Braigiar and Elladan just behind. You ghost through the flooded chambers, the water hardly rippling as you pass into the tunnels. None of the White Hand hiding here survive your passage. Braigiar turns right with confidence and Elladan follows after him. You go left and meet Halbarad in a large, open chamber, the floor covered in water nearly to your knees. You can tell by his face that he has found no more than you. 

There are eyes on you. Halbarad feels it too. You set your backs to each other and wait.

Gun Ain enters from another passage. She is dirty and as waterlogged as anything else here, but she walks with as much assurance as she ever has. She laughs at you and you clench your fists but you dare not use lightning here.

“I am surprised to find you in such company, ranger,” she says to Halbarad. “Has this not been a costly friendship for you and yours?” Halbarad ignores her and demands Lothrandir. She laughs again.

“Are you so certain that is what you want?”

“Give him to us, Avair!” you shout. Before you can blink her sword is at your throat and Halbarad’s is at hers. Her eyes burn.

“That is no longer my name,” she says, voice low and dangerous. “None will use it again. Especially not you.” If Halbarad were not in the water with you, you would be tempted to use your runestones on her anyway. She glares at you a moment longer before she lowers her blade. She holds your eye. “Come, Lothrandir!” she calls. “Your friends have come for you at last.”

The man that stumbles into the room is hardly Lothrandir. He wears his ranger’s gear, but it is beaten and weathered and hangs loosely off his body. He is bent painfully and when you run to him with Halbarad, the part of his face visible beneath his hood is scarred beyond recognition. He does not seem to see you, or if he does he does not know you. Halbarad looks to you with desperate hope as you raise your runestones, but you know before you try that this is beyond you. There is too much damage, old and new and layered through his body for you to put right, to say nothing of his mind. Your hands fall to your side.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I… there is nothing…” Footsteps splash from yet another passage and you push yourself up and away. You cannot meet their eyes. Gun Ain watches impassively.

By the stars you _left_ him here. You never even looked. If he was here this whole time you would have found him if you had only _looked_. You must have passed this building dozens of times in your rounds on Morflak’s errands and yet…

Someone sobs and you know he is gone. You look. Radanir holds a still body. Golodir’s face is murderous but Halbarad’s knuckles are white on his arm and he does not pull away. Corunir has a hand over his face and you cannot see his expression. In all the months since you first began to work with the Dúnedain you have never felt so outside of their number as you do at this moment. You back farther away.

Gun Ain is still watching. You cannot read her face. She moves as if to step towards them and you plant yourself between her and the rangers. No closer. She meets your eyes and something cracks.

“This was all I wanted,” she says quietly. “But I have no one. No family or friends. None will mourn my passing when it comes.”

You think you should be angry for what has been done, or that you should pity this nameless woman, but all you have is sadness and hurt. “You could have,” you tell her. She looks at you sharply. “The Trév Gállorg offered it freely after Clúcath. You could have found it with the Lossoth, after we left. You chose this instead.” She flinches but you feel no more sympathy than you did before. Her eyes wander back to your friends. “You were a fool to think Saruman could give you what you sought.” It is cruel, but you care little. Her eyes burn but she looks away.

“Perhaps you are right.” Some new light comes into her face and she tries to step past you. Elenagil sits above her heart in an instant and she stops but does not stay silent. “Listen to me!”

“Why should we do any such thing?” Golodir spits.

“Lothrandir is still alive.” It is the only thing she could have said to give him pause. “You were not wrong to have faith in his strength. The Wizard could not break him, no matter how he tried.” A smile crosses her face. “And oh how he tried.” She gestures to the body Radanir still holds. “This one was an unfortunate of the Falcon Clan. He was not so strong.”

Footsteps thump against wooden scaffolding above you.

“Halbarad!” Elladan’s voice calls. “We have found him.”

Golodir, Corunir, and Radanir splash to the scaffolding as soon as they have absorbed the words. Gun Ain laughs softly. “Even this choice matters not, then.” Halbarad remains and approaches Gun Ain. She holds out a small key. “He is in the southernmost corridor.” Halbarad gently lowers your arm, still holding Elenagil.

“We might very well have left this room thinking him gone,” he says, studying her carefully. “You would have prevented this had we not found him, and for that alone I am grateful. Take the name _Mercy_ and part with us here in peace for today.” He takes the key and follows after the others, leaving you alone.

"Mercy…" There are tears in her eyes and wonder in her voice. "Of all the places I might have sought a name, they are perhaps the last I would have looked to." You say nothing, looking instead at the poor Hebog-lûth man. There is relief, somewhere beneath the mess, that it is not Lothrandir, but you would not wish what this man suffered on any. You crouch beside him in the water and tug at the buckles of Lothrandir's pauldron until you can pull it free. Piece by piece you continue, uncaring of the water soaking your whole lower body. Mercy watches in silence. After a time she leaves your sight and you hear the cracking of wood. She returns to you with most of a wooden crate large enough for the rest of the gear. You finish your task in silence and turn to her.

"Goodbye, Mercy. I do not think we will meet again." You feel her watching you as you leave and when you glance back she is still there, staring at the dead Falcon.

You meet the others just outside the building, standing on a patch of muddy ground, faces to the sun. Lothrandir stands between Braigiar and Radanir, laughing at something. He is the first to hear your approach and when he sees you he smiles broadly. You set the crate somewhere it is unlikely to float away and brace yourself for… something. You know not what. Your mind is a tangle you cannot unravel.

Lothrandir hugs you as tightly as he is able and his arms shake with the effort. You hold him in return and feel something loosen. 

“Saruman was quite disappointed when you escaped,” he laughs, warm against your ear. You huff something that might be a laugh of your own. You glance down at the crate, which is steadily sinking deeper into the patch of mud.

“It may be waterlogged, but all of it should be there.” Lothrandir sinks down and examines it with a small smile.

“Thank you,” he says quietly and you wonder how long it has been since it was taken from him. You manage a small smile and step away as the others converge on Lothrandir, eager to help. Golodir catches your eye as you turn and you offer a small shrug. You leave them, wandering the ruined Ring in some strange haze until you make your way back to the foot of Orthanc.

The wild swings between grief and desperate hope would be enough to unsettle anyone- you have seen proof enough of that already. In part it is Isengard. Nothing good has happened to you here and it has done no good for you to return. It brings you neither joy nor peace to see the place broken and quite honestly you would like nothing more than to leave. Gun Ain's words follow you, too. You have come to love these people dearly and you are better for having known them. You can only hope they would say the same of you. You are not so certain they should. Would Candaith thank you, you wonder, for all this time imprisoned, hurt, and alone among the Dead? You shake yourself before your thoughts can sink further. Perhaps now is not the best time to be alone.

In time those who have come here are satisfied and you leave the valley, retreating well beyond the floodwaters for the night. You wander through the camp, listless still but calmer than you had been in the shadow of the tower. You stop at last beside a small fire at the edge of the encampment. Langlas is here, with Nethraw and Orthonn and Braigiar and Baldgar and two other Riders you are not familiar with. They wave you over and you eat with them, letting the conversation wash over you and pull you back down from wherever your mind has gone. You laugh with them eventually and you catch a triumphant smile on Baldgar’s face. Friends wander between the fires but you stay for a long time at this one, gazing into the flames.

Lothrandir sits beside you and you smile at him. He is not wearing the gear you recovered for him- you can see it dripping above a fire nearby- but he has managed to find something other than Isengard rags. You open your mouth but he speaks first.

“Do not apologize. If one more of you tries to apologize to me tonight I may be forced to do something rather stupid.” You tilt your head but he does not elaborate. “I do not begrudge you your escape and it has ended as well as it might. Tonight I would much prefer to enjoy walking beneath trees again.” 

“Very well,” you say. He relaxes some.

“Thank you. Although, I do have something of yours, I believe.” Lothrandir pulls up a sleeve to reveal a familiar bracer. You stare. “I woke one night certain I heard familiar voices, though I couldn’t make out the words. No one else moved near me, but this was on my arm.” He begins to fiddle with the straps.

“I was never sure what happened,” you say. “I half-believed it lost at the Fords. Perhaps Grimbold was more right about the dream than he knew.” Lothrandir gets the drake-scale bracer free and holds it out. Etched into the inner curve is a rune.

“It served me well, though I had some difficulties hiding it once or twice." His mouth twitches. "On the matter of dreams, I had a number of strange ones here. Braigiar has said little to me of them, but I believe there must be some truth in them. He knew the path to my cell with great certainty, once he found the right building.”

You take the bracer and turn it in your hands. You had given it up for lost long since but you are surprised by the happiness it brings you to see it returned. It and Lothrandir both, you suppose. You examine the rune carefully. “There have been a number of strange dream-related happenings.” Meticulously carved. Careful if inexpert. Nothing about it should have done Lothrandir harm. You lower it, satisfied. “How much have the others told you?”

A good amount, it turns out, if in scattered and disjointed bursts. You tell Lothrandir of the Grey Company’s travels as you know them, though you gloss over your own. You have just fallen silent when Idhrien appears across the fire, hands on her hips.

“Radanir is trying to recall one of your Khuzdul songs and is making a mess of it. Will you stop him? Preferably before Aragorn’s dwarf friend hears?”

You think Gimli would more likely find rangers butchering dwarvish songs entertaining than offensive, but you allow Idhrien to pull you and Lothrandir to another fire, where Radanir is indeed recalling one of the songs you had learned from the Iron Garrison and since shared with them. Every other word is wrong and you are not sure if he is doing it on purpose or not. Neither would necessarily surprise you.

One song becomes many, from you and Celairant and, yes, Radanir. Many of the Rohirrim who you do not know are attracted by the music and bring out instruments- from where you know not- and play accompaniment and songs of their own. Gléowine too is drawn by the sound and the night falls away in song and laughter until at last even the most enthusiastic must seek their blankets. You share a last smile with Lothrandir and see him settled safely in the inner ranks of the rangers, a fact he pretends not to notice, and at last sleep yourself.

You would have that be the end of it. Isengard is broken, Lothrandir is free, the Grey Company has found Aragorn. The people of Rohan might begin to rebuild with their king and their prince. You can find Horn and Corudan and Nona and see them happy. But this war is far from over. The White Hand is but a shadow of the true power in the East. The rest of the surviving Fellowship is gathered here now but Frodo and Sam continue on to Mordor and as Lord Elrond said when they set out it is the task of all those who are not bearing your hope and doom to hold the eye of the Enemy. Simple enough in word, and perhaps in deed as well, but the task is very, very large and some nights you feel very, very small. You wish safety and happiness for your friends while knowing all too well why it is not to be. Oaths and duty and the simple fact that someone must be the protector and these are the ones who have the strength and will to take the role. You could turn away no more than they.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope mercy feels like doing something kind w the falcon guy's body bc est sure isn't rn


	4. sea/see

Aragorn intends to take the Paths of the Dead and the Grey Company will follow. You would follow, too, if they asked, but they do not, and you are kept busy helping the Rohirrim and all the while keeping watch for any sign of Horn, Corudan, or Nona. You follow them as far as the Dark Door with Baldgar and a handful of Théodred’s other Riders, intending to sweep through the hills for lurking dangers encroaching on Dunharrow. You watch Braigiar carefully as you approach the Door. This will be dangerous for him, if he is at all right about the nature of his mind since his brush with death. Elrohir rides near him, speaking quietly. Aragorn approaches you, holding the wooden star of the Dúnedain.

“Radanir was rather put out that you no longer had this,” he says with a laugh. The sound falls at odd angles here. “It was, apparently, made especially _for_ you.” You take the star and hold it tightly enough to leave impressions on your palm as one by one the Dúnedain vanish into the Paths of the Dead. You sigh when the last of them pass out of your sight and turn away. Baldgar leads the way back to the Rohirrim’s muster and several people call out to you by name in greeting. After the fighting at Helm’s Deep you do not lack for friends here.

In the end, you follow after the Dúnedain within a day. You bring a child out of the Paths only to hear news of Nazgûl over Edoras, though few here name the creature. Wraiths circling and the Ruthless Dead wandering from the Mountain. Troubles abound still. You speak briefly with Éowyn and Théodred at the muster and they agree this new danger cannot be ignored. You agree to walk the Paths of the Dead yourself while the cousins prepare the Eorlingas for war.

The Dark Door is cold and Valla balks before it. You lead her on foot, speaking softly, and at last she follows. There is little light here and the cold falls over you like a damp shroud, clinging. You are more aware than ever before that you are alone and you wish desperately that someone, anyone, walked this path beside you.

The Ruthless Dead do not care for your passing but you emerge at last into the sunlight of the Blackroot Vale. Whispers of cold shadows passing and enraging the wildlife abound but you see little sign to say that the Ruthless Dead invade. Yet. You stand before the Stone of Erech and think on days long past. Candaith had told you the story as the Dúnedain know it, different from the history you had once read in the libraries of Imladris for all the facts at the heart were the same. There are recent marks of feet and hooves here- they came this way. 

They came this way and near scared the life out of those they passed, you think, after the swan-knight challenges you. Rovalang fears for his own land and you are not sure how much to tell him. If any word of the host of the Dead reaches the Enemy, Aragorn will lose any surprise he still has. At worst, he may be surprised in turn and that is something you cannot allow. A shadow far larger than any bird passes overhead and the cold that follows it is more than a dimming of the sun.

“You know what this creature is,” Rovalang says. It is not a question. “Will it harm the people of Blackroot if left unopposed?”

“And many others besides.” The Nazgûl are unmistakable even by secondhand description. What does it want here? You follow Rovalang into the hills and realize with growing unease that this track leads up to the Paths of the Dead. Does the Enemy seek the allegiance of the Ruthless Dead who did not follow Aragorn? A shiver runs through you. Whatever their aim, if the Nazgûl reaches the Door it will surely learn of the Grey Company’s passage. Even with the Dead as allies you do not think they could long survive a concerted assault from the Nine, all the more so if they are caught unaware. You run faster up the slopes.

The great winged beast sits riderless among the trees and you know you have little time. You run past it, heedless of the threat it presents or Rovalang’s hissed worries. You feel the fell chill creep upon you, sharp and terrifying but familiar, by now. You are close.

You round the last corner and see the Nazgûl, not yet entered into the Paths. Your first attack is wild and seeks only to catch its attention. It blasts a section of stone from the threshold and the Nazgûl turns. The cold increases tenfold and you realize the full extent of what you are doing. Rovalang calls challenge beside you and for a moment you are in the barrows, in Helegrod, in Dol Guldur. 

The Nazgûl hisses your name and the cold seizes you. “You are known to us.” The Nine know you. You have interfered with them before and each time you have lived to tell of it. This will be no different, especially not when your failure may spell death for many whom you love. You force yourself to battle and Rovalang follows. You bless his courage, as foolish as your own, and together you harry the Bane of Rhûn until it abandons its form and vanishes into the shadows. You are under no illusions as to the permanence of this victory, but if you have bought your friends any time at all you will count it a victory indeed. You build a large fire for yourself and Rovalang as night falls and try to ignore the lingering chill.

You see the sea for the second time, crashing against the cliffs beside the road to Dol Amroth. You have heard of the call, of course- your father and elder sibling sailed three and four hundred years past- and you listen for it, curious more than anything. If the call is there, though, it is indistinguishable from the sound of waves against rock.

Lothíriel’s eyes are hard when you speak to her with Rovalang. She knows what you fought and she knows the Enemy. You spend three days in Dol Amroth and its surrounds all told. You like Lothíriel, for as briefly as you know her. She reminds you of Éowyn, indeed of many of the women in Rohan left to rule as fathers and brothers and husbands ride to war at the King’s command. There is variance in their responses and while you doubt Lothíriel is as eager to ride into battle as Éowyn, she has devoted herself to her duty just as fiercely, whatever her misgivings. You board the Night-jewel for her and do your very best not to antagonize the Umbaran captain. You do mostly succeed, though Balakhôr still makes you swim back to the docks.

“He will burn the fleet at Pelargir,” you say, dripping seawater onto the floor. “He will leave only what force is necessary to keep your ships blockaded here and the rest will sail around the Cape.”

“I suspected as much,” Lothíriel says grimly. She beckons you to a map nearby and traces a route through the Ringló Vale. “Someone must warn them. My people tell me your horse is Rohirrim-bred. You must be swift.” You nod once. You hope Valla’s speed will be enough. “Sauron’s servants are everywhere, but we have only just begun to fight.” Lothíriel looks at you and her eyes soften. “We should find you a change of clothes first, however.”

You are indeed treated to fresh clothes and to a bountiful meal replete with the most interesting seafood dishes you think you have ever seen. You are away before dawn, and though the sky lightens by degrees as you go on you do not think you ever truly see the sun. Shadow lies heavily on the valley and you urge Valla on.

You ride until you can see the coastline again. Black sails cloud the horizon and you can just make out the bulk of the Night-jewel in the heart of the fleet. A clamor catches your ear nearby and you find Prestadír, Idhrenfair, and Himeinior engaged with a Haradrim patrol. You join the fight just as it ends and Prestadír smiles at you. “Are you here to find us again or is this just happy coincidence?”

“It depends on whether or not you make for Pelargir, I suppose.” You ride with them back to the cleft in the rocks where Aragorn has made his war camp. You twitch at the sight and sensation of the Dead all around, but they and the Grey Company are not the only ones here. Banners and shields bearing the devices of half a dozen cities and small towns reflect the torchlight as they stand gathered around Aragorn. You recognize the black orb of the Stone of Erech on white from Blackroot, and the mailed of fist of Lamedon, black on gold, among others. Voices call out in welcome and surprise but you ignore them long enough to report on the movement of the Corsair fleet with Prestadír and Idhrenfair. You are too late to save Gondor’s fleet, but not too late to retake the city and so you agree to join the assault.

“I thought you were staying on the other side of the mountains,” Radanir says. “Not that I am complaining, of course, but I am rather surprised to see you here. Did you miss our company that much?”

“This trip was for my health, of course,” you say. “Don’t tell me I have wandered into the middle of something important.” Radanir laughs and pulls you over to a fire. Braigiar is there, too pale by half and visibly tired. You never do tell them about the Nazgûl near Erech, not for a long time.

The assault on Pelargir goes smoothly, as such things are counted, and you are glad to see the Dead depart. You recognize several of the shades from the Forsaken Road and you watch them warily until they are gone. You spend the day after helping as you are able throughout the shaken city, biding your time until you must depart overland with Angbor for the Rammas Echor and Minas Tirith.

Braigiar looks much better for the departure of the Dead. Calenglad asks you to check on Halbarad if you enter the city. Lothrandir is exhausted, though he tries to hide it. He may be fooling the soldiers of Gondor who have rallied to Aragorn’s banner, but not so you or the rest of the Dúnedain. He fumes at his own weakness and you offer what encouragement you can, but you can do little else besides carry boxes for him. Your healing, while useful, is limited. You can mend torn flesh and broken bones and cast out simple toxins, but anything more complicated is beyond your skill. The healers’ art had never been the primary focus in your studies.

You find Corunir by a tall pillar, looking out over the city. The Pelargir docks spread below, the Corsairs’ black sails furled tightly against the stiff breeze. Before you can even ask if he needs help with some task or another, he snaps at you. You stop short and he sighs, rubbing at his face. He never looks away from the docks.

“I’m sorry. What did you need?”

“I was here to ask if you needed help with anything.” You hesitate. “Are you alright?” He faces you at last and you recognize the look on his face. You saw it in the Gravenwood after Tûr Morva, and earlier in Angmar, before you ventured into Nûrz Ghâshu with him. “Golodir?”

Corunir snorts. “He is down by the docks. I am keeping my distance, but if you go down that way do not blame me if he shouts at you. He seems to have forgotten his friends.” He looks back at the docks one last time and leaves. You can make out Golodir’s familiar silhouette watching the Anduin below and wonder what he might have said to drive Corunir away. You heard the hurt and concern in his voice, under the anger. You take a breath and find the nearest set of stairs.

Golodir’s anger catches you off-guard, even with Corunir’s warning. You think it takes him off-guard, too. He masters himself, but his voice shakes when he speaks. 

“I do not know where this is coming from. It is not like the rogmul, nor is it simply the presence of the Dead, though I am sure they did not help. It feels most like-” he takes a deep breath. It does not seem to steady him any. “I am put in mind most of my time in Carn Dûm.” He shakes his head sharply. “I will master this. Do not worry about me.” You give him a look and at last it draws some semblance of a smile. “I suppose that is rather like telling Corunir not to worry. I will find him and apologize. I hope I did not hurt him too deeply with my words.”

“He worries,” you say simply. Perhaps he is right to, you do not say. Golodir might hear it anyway. You pull him into a loose embrace and he sighs into your shoulder. 

“You are not going on the ships with us.”

“No.”

“Then keep yourself safe, and we will meet again in the White City, if not before.”

“You too. Stay near Corunir and the rest of the Company, if you can.” Irritation crosses his face but it is gone quickly.

“I will do my best.”

You ride out soon after with Angbor and his men. You find the Rammas Echor already overrun and so you leave them and turn east into Ithilien. You find a handful of the southern rangers that guard this land and two young men from the Blackroot Vale, but no sign of Faramir whom you seek at Aragorn’s request. You track down one of the massive mûmakil with Derufin and Duilin and run the other direction as quickly as you find them. You have seen the mammoths that roam Forochel but the mûmak dwarfs them by an order of magnitude. The Blackroot men speak eagerly of the glory they will find when they finally do manage to bring one down and laugh too loudly in the empty forest.

You approach Osgiliath from the east with Derufin and Duilin at your back and barely make it to the old sewers where the last defenders of the city make their camp. From there you strike out into the occupied city for the massive ram that rests on the bridge. 

The enemy camps are strangely empty as you pass through. A brief wave of intense, sourceless terror stops you dead. You spin and your sight blurs. For a moment the sky flickers and the air grows drier, colder. It smells of iron.

“Are you alright?” Derufin asks. You shake your head and the vision falls away, though the feeling does not fade.

“I take it you did not see that, then?”

“See what?”

“...nothing. Let’s go.”

You continue, finding only a handful of orc-kin here in the heart of the city, where they should be most concentrated. Still the unease does not leave you and still Derufin feels nothing. You catch a flash of color against the grey-black-brown of the ruins and you chase after it. Narmeleth? No. You were witness to her last moments yourself. She would not have returned to Middle-earth. You insist that you are well enough to continue into the city and Derufin separates from you, despite his clear misgivings.

Narmeleth. The winds of Angmar. Golodir, dead in the street- but how could he have beaten you here? Even if he had left Pelargir at the same time as you, Valla is by far the faster steed. The vision falls away but it makes the memory no easier to bear. What is this, and why did it not touch Derufin?

You find Grond and employ your well-earned talents for sabotage. You know it will not be a permanent end to the weapon, but it will buy Gondor some time at least. Derufin and Duilin catch up as you survey your work. Derufin glances at you and you think you must look no better than you did before. The unease still churns in you and still you are alone in the experience.

Heavy footsteps behind you. You turn. Derufin and Duilin stand ready for a fight.

The voice you know at once. The new shape takes longer to reconcile with your memory, but there are suggestions still of the False King’s form. Mordirith- Gothmog, now- stands before you once more, and instead of easing the weight on your heart redoubles in your comprehension. Golodir… Gothmog believes he cannot die while Golodir still lives. Whether there is truth in it or not, you know his presence will only hurt. It hurts you, here, even as Derufin and Duilin pull you away. Everything you did to put a final end to him and still he is _here_.

“Is it true?” Derufin demands, once you have reached the safety of the hidden culvert. “Is he truly deathless?”

“No,” you whisper. Then, stronger: “No. He cannot be.” But you do not sound convinced even to your own ears. “It is illusion only. Meant to frighten us. Nothing more.” They are not convinced, not really, and they chatter on about the honor and acclaim they could find in such a battle. There was little enough of that in the war for Angmar. There will be none now.

The last defenders of Osgiliath at last break for Minas Tirith. You find Faramir, embattled on the Pelennor fields. Your conversation is precisely three lines long before Faramir falls and cold descends. You have not the strength to fight the cold of one of the Nine, not after today, but you place yourself between it and Faramir anyway.

Blinding light blazes out from the city and you flee to what safety Minas Tirith can provide. You nearly forget to pass Aragorn’s message on in the tumult of the day but at last you manage it in between errands intended to familiarize you with the city.

Your lunch with Pippin is a strange affair. You are familiar faces to each other, which is more than can be said for near anyone else in the city, and you share the burden of knowledge of the Fellowship’s quest, but you would hardly call yourselves close friends. Still, Pippin tells you of his misadventure with Saruman’s palantír and it has the air of a confession. You look out over Minas Tirith from the edge of the Pier. 

“It was just… there. I had to look.”

You give him a wry smile. You have done things as unwise for the sake of your own curiosity before. It has been some years since yours landed you in this much trouble, though. Pippin apologizes for souring the mood of your meal but you shrug. There is enough bad news to go around, these days. Your own thoughts still dwell on Gothmog. You have told no one yet of his return and the knowledge eats at you. Some of it must show through. Pippin asks if you are alright and you find yourself telling him of your encounter. He is silent for a moment after you finish, face troubled.

“That doesn’t sound good. You should tell Gandalf about it, I think.” You should. You will, when time affords you the opportunity. Darkness still shrouds the sky, despite the hour.

"Well, this has been quite the cheery picnic."

Your wonder at the sight of the Old Archives nearly chases away the gloom of the dark noon above. You think it might entirely were it not for the reason you and Mithrandir have come here. You know who Mordirith once was- Laerdan had known, though it had done him little good when he confronted he who was once Eärnur in Mirobel. Gandalf searches the old scrolls and books for anything else of the last king of Gondor and his knights. You eye first the white light that shines from his staff and then the flickering candle in your hand. He catches you and rolls his eyes.

“Oh, very well. Listen carefully…” Within minutes a tiny globe of light sits at the end of the wick and you and blow out the candle with glee.

Gandalf worries that Gothmog seeks to claim Gondor as his kingdom once more, rather than crush it utterly in Sauron’s name. He worries that the wraith has more claim to the throne than Aragorn, but the potential politics are the farthest thing from your mind.

“He said in Osgiliath that his life was tied to Golodir’s. Can it be true?”

Gandalf’s silence is more confirmation than you would like. “It may depend,” he says eventually, “on why he has returned. It may be fortunate for Golodir if his desire is only to reclaim the throne, if less so for Gondor.” You think of Golodir’s sourceless anger and of Gothmog’s words in Osgiliath and you are not reassured.

The Steward summons you to audience soon after you leave the Archives. Denethor leads you to a high tower and bids you gaze into the palantír and you cannot refuse. You want to, but your gaze is drawn ever back to the stone and the Steward’s watchful eyes and you fall forward into visions of ruin and despair. You think you wake and find the city in flames, falling around you no matter your efforts. You wake in truth to find barely twenty minutes have passed and such sun as pierces the clouds still shines. Denethor stands over you, despairing. Not cruelty, he says? Spreading despair and stealing hope is nothing you would call kindness. He dismisses you and you stumble back into the courtyard, still whole. Gandalf questions you only briefly before sending you to the stables with whatever weight his name may provide.

You can still see Minas Tirith in flames in your mind’s eye and you push it away as far as you can. 

“There are still several messenger-horses you might take, though I know not what good it will do. Even all the might of Rohan, if they come, will avail us little against those who cannot die.” You turn back slowly to face the stable-master. “Have you not heard? A couple Blackroot men were just here, telling us that some among the Enemy’s generals cannot be slain. They may yet be here- I can hear voices on the second level still.”

You storm up the stairs and sure enough, Duilin and Derufin are perched atop bales of hay, recounting your encounter with Gothmog in Osgiliath to a pair of Gondorian guards. At the look on your face, their audience vanishes, though the brothers themselves are cornered and cannot do the same. You rather doubt they would have the sense to, even if they could.

“What have you been telling these people?” you demand. Derufin makes a face.

“And hello to you, too. We were only telling them of our adventures. What has so upset you?”

“To what end are you spreading the idea that the Enemy’s commanders are immortal?”

Duilin frowns at you. “It is one thing to fight orcs and Men, even trolls and the great mûmakil, but wraiths that cannot be killed? They deserve to know what they are fighting.”

“And if they choose to fight anyway, well it makes them all the greater doesn’t it?” Derufin adds. You shake your head at them both and turn away. “I think we have done them a kindness. Either their anger at the ranger or their desire for honors will drive them to greater heights in battle!”

“If you truly believe that, then I would suggest you have as little sense as the olog-hai,” you snap. You saw the looks on the soldiers’ faces down below. “You are spreading despair only.”

Duilin speaks. “That is hardly how-”

“Pay attention! Look at their faces and tell me they are inspired to fight.” The brothers look at each other and you see the first of their certainty break. “Hope is thin enough without these rumors.” You take a deep breath but it does little to calm you. “Even if Gothmog cannot be killed he may still be defeated. He is not as invulnerable as he might like to believe.” You hope they can take the words more to heart than you can.

Derufin shakes his head. “It is wrong to send them into a hopeless fight without knowledge. I believe they will fight anyway, however they despair now. My conscience is clear, having told them what I know.”

“What you _know_ of Gothmog is precious little,” you say harshly. You leave them, finding the horse Lobordil has readied for you. Few of those remaining in the stable will meet your eye and it is then that you notice the silence. The whole building must have heard your argument. You shake your head at the whole situation and ride north as quickly as you can. You do not realize until it is much too late that you did not ask what they meant by anger directed at a ranger.


	5. glory

You find the Drúedain long before you find the Rohirrim (and they find you long before that) and you can only wish you had the time to know them better. The Wild Men help you in the name of shared enmity with Sauron’s forces and you come to Théoden’s warstead far sooner than you might have otherwise. There are many familiar faces here- the greater number of all Rohan’s fighters have responded to the King’s call.

You find Horn, alone, in the shadow of an ancient tree. He does not see you yet. He looks tired and lost and you see no sign of Nona. There is none of the long, sturdy grass that grows near Woodhurst here, but there are a number of trailing vines with small yellow berries that you are able to coax into some semblance of a circle. Horn looks up when it drops onto his head and a grin splits his face. You sit beside him and he wraps you in a tight hug.

“I heard a commotion at the edge of the warstead, but I did not imagine it was your doing,” he says, still smiling. He looks past you, searching the trees. “Where is Corudan? I have much to tell the two of you.” Your face falls and you look away.

“I have not seen him since before the fighting at Helm’s Deep. He left to scout and never returned.” There is silence for a time. “What of Nona?” It is Horn’s turn to look away.

“We… did not part on the best of terms.” You listen to his story and think that an understatement. “She believes I will die before Minas Tirith- the seeress told her I would. She thinks too that I ride for glory, but she is wrong, and so is my father and every other Rider here that I have convinced.” Horn smiles, small and soft. “Maybe we do ride to our deaths, but if we can do this, if we can defy Sauron, there may be a lasting peace, and whether I am there or not Nona and our child will be safe.” His head thumps back against the tree and he sighs. “That is all I want, in the end.” You fiddle with a braided leather bracelet around your wrist and think of Nona’s words in Hildegard’s cave.

“She knows, I think, what you seek, even if she is angry with you for riding anyway.”

“You gave the seeress more credence than I. Do you believe this is suicide?”

You sigh. “The coming battle will be large. Beyond anything we have seen thus far.” A bigger battle than the Fords, than Helm’s Deep. “Victory, if we have it, will not come cheaply.”

Horn looks at you sidelong. “That is not an answer.”

“I believe that Hildegard saw you dead. That does not mean you will die tomorrow.” You swore to Nona- and to yourself- that you would not allow it. _You cannot save them all_ , Hildegard told you. Perhaps not, but that does not mean you won’t try. You lean into Horn’s shoulder for a moment before standing. “Whatever happens next, it is good to see you again.” Horn smiles at you and nods.

You find Théoden with Théodred and Éomer and all the assembled commanders and sworn lords of Rohan. With Elfhelm’s hint you find Merry and Éowyn, too. Knowingly or not, it seems the entire house of Eorl rides to war. 

Minas Tirith is surrounded on all sides. You can smell the smoke from here, falling into the line with Horn. He eyes your horse.

"Valla is smaller than I remember her." You give him a tight grin and pat the messenger horse fondly. She is no battle-mount, but she is fast and sure-footed and that was what you had needed of her. You hope she will last the day.

Théoden rides down the line, speaking to his Riders. You can hear less than half his words even with your keen ears, but you suppose it is less the words and more the appearance of their King that is meant to inspire. Théodred and Éomer ride a few lengths behind him, side by side. War horns sound and a great cry goes up all around you and the Riders in front of you begin to move. Horn nods to you and draws his sword. You try to settle yourself but you know there is no saying how this will end. Rohan has come, though. Denethor is already proven wrong. You ride at Horn's left as the wave gathers speed, faster and faster until all you can hear is the wind in your ears before the line crashes against the armies of Mordor and you are in the middle of the worst storm you have seen in eight hundred years of life.

You lose sight of Horn almost immediately but you have no time to panic because there are three goblin archers and they are all aiming at you and even at your best you can only stop two of them before they loose. You get the first but miss the second, but his arrow misses you too so you suppose it could be called a draw. The third scores a deep groove along your horse's flank. She screams and tramples the offender, but soon after you are thrown from the saddle by something blunt from behind. You are hardly the only one unhorsed, and as the day presses on you find yourself side by side with dozens of others. Grimbold and Théodred pass by you in the rush, still mounted, and buy you a precious minute to catch your breath. You fight back to back with three women out of Snowbourn for what seems an hour before you are swept apart again. Prince Imrahil leads his swan-knights out from the city and you can track his progress by the wave of cheers that follow the charge.

You feel the Nazgûl long before you look up to see them. Cold like a cloud passing the sun bites through the maddened heat of the battle. You would hardly notice it save for the fact that the sky is still overcast, the sun hidden. The fell beasts shriek down. You have drifted far from Théoden and his escort in the fighting but the wails spreading through the King’s host tell you what has happened. You fight your way closer, shocking any of Sauron’s soldiers that comes too close. You find Horn again, his sword bared and dark with blood. He grips your shoulder with his free hand, breathing deeply.

“I knew this fight would be bloody, but even in my darkest imaginings I never thought…” he trails into silence and shakes his head. He looks at his sword. “There are so many dead already.” He sounds so _tired_ and you fear for him quite aside from the foreboding Hildegard’s words put in your heart. You never invoked your ward today, thinking the battle far too unpredictable to allow you to maintain it, but you pull Horn closer and invoke it over him now. He takes no notice of it but it is all the protection you can offer today. Shouts rise from the south and you can see the banner of the King, which you suppose follows Théodred now, alone on a rocky hill surrounded by foes. The loss of Théoden- and Éowyn- has already shaken the Rohirrim. To lose Théodred too might break them entirely.

Horn shows no sign of moving, but his father is not far, rallying who he can to make his way to the new King. There is no time now to dwell on dislikes or lingering grievances and so you follow Ingbert back into the battle. The Witch-king may be slain as those who witnessed Théoden’s end say, but the enemy shows no sign of breaking and the rest of the Nine still circle above. You press on.

Derufin and Duilin call out to you and you forget your anger and smile to see them.

“You do show up in the most interesting of places, friend,” Derufin laughs. He recounts his adventures in the two days since your departure- in brief, thankfully- while Duilin introduces himself to Ingbert and his men. “You want to pass these two mûmakil? We have already brought down four of the beasts! Let us show you how it is done.” Before you can protest, the two brothers are already out in the open ground, drawing the attention of the Haradrim’s great war-beasts.

It ends badly. Duilin falls with an arrow in his chest and you choose not to look at what remains of Derufin. It buys you enough time to pass with Ingbert and his soldiers, drawing ever closer to Théodred. The way is easier once you link with Imrahil again, but you are still hard-pressed to break into the circle of Théodred's fighters. You see Éomer there with his cousin, and Grimbold and Baldgar and many others you recognize from Helm's Deep and the Fords. People call out for news but little of what they hear is good.

Arrows arc from beyond the hill and a dozen fighters fall screaming. Protected by the presence of so many others, you drop beside them and dig healing runes from your bag. You save five of them from wounds that might otherwise have been fatal before you are forced to stop, your head spinning. It is only just approaching noon and already it is more difficult to stand every time you stop moving.

Baldgar calls to you from where he stands with Théodred and Éomer on a spur of rock affording them an unimpeded view of the southern Pelennor.

"You have the sharper eyes," Baldgar says with forced cheer that falls very flat. "Tell me ours deceive us." You follow his arm over the field. Black sails fly on the river and your heart leaps.

"The Corsairs come to join the battle as well," Théodred says, voice heavy. "This day may yet reach new depths, it seems."

You laugh. They turn to you, faces ranging from confused to angered and you nearly laugh again. "Do not lose hope just yet," you say. "I-" am supposed to be keeping this a secret yet. "Keep watching the ships." You leave them more confused than they had been and run to the base of the hill. Three times you call out the words you spoke in Aglarond and three spurs of stone split the ground. Lines of white arc between them and the dark sky and thunder of a strange timbre rolls across the field. You fall to a knee, pulled in too many directions at once by the stones. Your fingertips itch.

“The banner of the White Tree! The ships are for Gondor!” You smile and push yourself up. Éomer rallies what Riders remain mounted for a charge while the enemy struggles to face their new foes from the ships. You find a riderless horse and follow after them until you break through to the ruined farm where Aragorn and his forces have established a foothold. You swing down from your borrowed horse- who is immediately reappropriated by a dismounted shieldmaiden- and push through the crowds until you find a handful of the Grey Company in an empty space littered with dead orcs. Braigiar waves to you.

“We could see the lightning from here. I was wondering when you would make your way back to us.” He makes to leave, then stops. “Oh, watch out for the corpses. Some of them are less dead than they appear.” You lose sight of him amid the battle within seconds.

You make your way through the fallen with all the lightness of foot you have learned from your friends and all the grace of the Eldar you can find. More than once you catch the rise of a chest that should be still and rectify the situation with Elenagil. She has seen nearly as much use today as your runestones. You find Radanir on the ground, holding his leg and scowling at a still orc. You nudge it with your foot, just to be safe.

“I already killed that one,” Radanir says with exasperation. You look to his leg while he calls the dead orc a number of unkind things. You pull him to his feet when you are done and recommend an orcish curse for the playactors. He considers it. “Perhaps. What exactly does it mean?”

“Ah…”

Shouts from the other end of the smoking farm interrupt you before you can answer that question, to your relief. It’s not so much that it is any more vulgar than any other curse you know, but orcish curses tend to be much more convoluted in meaning and not as simple as one might expect to translate.

You and Radanir go together towards the shouting. Halbarad stands between Corunir and a man in the dress of a guard of Minas Tirith, who are busy shouting at each other. 

“What is happening here,” Radanir murmurs. You can only shake your head. Halbarad is as clueless as you and entirely unsuccessful at calming Corunir.

“Have you heard what this man is saying?” Corunir demands. You have seen him angry before, but never in the time you have known has he been so full of rage. He paces a short path along the wall that you, Radanir, and Halbarad form, never taking his eyes from the Gondorian. “Have you heard his lies for yourself yet?” You glance at the other man, who looks near as angry as Corunir.

“I would have thought you knew already, traveling with him as you were,” he says. “We learned of the truth even in a city under siege!” Corunir tries to push past you but you plant a hand on his chest and he glares at you.

“What truth did you learn?” Halbarad asks.

“Every member of the garrison knows the name of the ranger bonded to Gothmog.” The name lands like a physical blow. “We have cursed the name of Golodir of the north since we learned of it.” Corunir tries to leap forward again but you grab him by the shoulders and push him back.

“Corunir.” The Gondorian starts again but you ignore him. Corunir tries to break from your grip but you only tighten your hold. “Corunir, _listen_ to me.” Something in your voice breaks through his anger. He stops fighting you, though the tension does not leave him. “It’s Mordirith.” Corunir finally looks at you.

“What?”

“I saw him in Osgiliath. Gothmog is Mordirith returned.”

Corunir’s anger gives out entirely and he shakes. You think he might collapse altogether if your arms were not still wrapped tight around his shoulders. “ _How_.” The pain contained in just one word cuts at you and you close your eyes, resting your head against Corunir's shoulder. “He was gone. Golodir was finally free of him.” We all were, you hear, though he does not say it. For all Golodir had always been the greatest target, he is not the only one scarred by the war in Angmar and the False King.

The guard’s voice breaks into your thoughts, his voice raised to ensure Corunir hears. “...and if you think otherwise, you are fool-”

“That is enough of that, I think,” Radanir says firmly. He tows the guard away, one hand clamped over the man’s mouth. Corunir steadies himself and straightens. Halbarad watches you both, his face dark.

“I would much rather not believe it, but it would explain a great many things,” Halbarad says quietly. “What of this bond Amegil spoke of?” The Gondorian’s name, you suppose.

“Mordirith- or Gothmog or Eärnur or whatever other name he may use- he believed that he could not be slain in truth so long as Golodir lives.” You do not look at Corunir. “Gandalf said it may not be the truth, or at least not the full truth, but I am not certain how much he believed it.” Something grey moves at the edge of your vision but when you look there is nothing. Silence hangs heavy between the three of you. _Derufin, Duilin, what have you done?_ But you can’t even bring yourself to be properly angry with them, not with their ends so fresh in your mind, just two more among the horrors of this day.

Corunir shakes his head sharply. “We have to find Golodir. I lost sight of him once we broke into this yard but he cannot be far. Even without knowing what Gothmog is, some of the things Amegil and his lot said…” he trails off, his eyes haunted. 

Corunir leaves and you stand and stare at the dusty ground. The last… two days? three days? No, only two- the vision in the palantír throws your count. However long it has been since you first laid eyes on Gothmog, you have filled the time with enough tasks and worries that you have only faced the reality once or twice. One more near-unkillable lieutenant of the Enemy means very little, really, with the Nazgúl already in the field, but Mordirith means you did not win, before, and perhaps their deaths were in vain, Lorniel and Laerdan and Narmeleth and more, more than you will ever know the names for. You bought perhaps three months’ respite for those fighting in the north.

Halbarad’s hand falls on your shoulder. Battle still rages in the distance, though the world is quieter now than it has been since you woke this morning among the Rohirrim. There is still fighting to attend to here.

“We have beaten him before and we will do so again, no matter how immortal he thinks himself,” you say quietly. “And we will kill these rumors.”

Halbarad sighs and the sound is tired. “Would that it were so simple.”

“It is,” you say. You will find Mordirith and cast him into the Void a third time, and then you will see if he speaks true of this tether to Golodir. If he does, you will break it.

Halbarad laughs, then, short. “Perhaps it will be after all and I will be proven wrong. I hope it is so. You will have to find out.”

Something about the words sounds a tone of warning in your heart and you cannot understand why. “Halbarad-”

“Many of us have seen our deaths here,” he says, matter-of-fact. Someone calls for him across the yard and he waves acknowledgement. “Do not treat yourself too unkindly if some have seen true. If you find you need a task to distract yourself, keep the others from doing the same.” He smiles at you and you think with dread that this is a goodbye. “I must find Aragorn. Until later, my friend.”

Seen their deaths? You have had entirely too much of foresight of late. Who did he mean? Himself, almost certainly, and Calenglad’s request in Pelargir make horrible sense now. Who else? It could be any of them. Golodir..?

A blur of grey flashes across the open space around you and moments later Lothrandir stops beside you, doubling over and breathing hard. He points in the direction the other blur has gone.

“Corunir is going after Golodir,” he pants out. “I cannot keep up, but the state he is in, I fear he will not make it far alone.” In the space of a breath you are tearing after Corunir. Lothrandir shouts something behind you but you are already out of easy hearing.

At first it is easy to follow, but Corunir neither stops nor slows when you call to him and soon you are back in the thick of the fighting, dodging between combattants as you are able and slamming Elenagil or a fistful of lightning into those you cannot. You at last catch up to Corunir as he takes on three massive uruks at once. Like all the rangers, he is very good, but even fueled by desperation he will not win this fight alone. Elenagil takes one in the neck, but then your surprise is spent and even two against two it is a close thing. You have barely recovered the dagger before Corunir is running again, heedless of your voice.

He finally stops outside the remains of an orc encampment. Much of it is flattened but the inner cordons are still intact, and above them you see the head of a massive olog and its hideous weapon. You listen and you catch a number of shouts from within, among them a name. Thrúgrath. You recognize it, though you cannot place it. Corunir catches his breath, studying the camp and your surroundings, as if just now realizing the situation.

"Golodir is here?"

Corunir nods. "If Amegil can be believed, yes." He takes a deep breath. "I can only hope we are not too late." He enters and you follow.

Golodir faces Thrúgrath alone in an empty arena in the center of the camp. He stands unbowed, but beside the great olog he looks very, very small. His eyes flick to you and Corunir but he otherwise does not acknowledge you, even when Corunir calls out to him. Thrúgrath, though, turns and Golodir's eyes flash.

"Very well," he cries. "You want sport? Here then!" Golodir charges and Thrúgrath laughs fit to shake the earth.

"Golodir, what are you doing?" Corunir whispers. Golodir dives aside as the olog's axe swings down and Corunir charges too. You make to follow but in a distant corner of your mind, a thread snaps and you stumble. _Horn. But where..?_ You have drifted too far to be able to tell direction. You come back to your head just in time to avoid losing it to Thrúgrath’s backswing as he takes aim at Golodir again. Golodir is still shouting at Thrúgrath, holding his attention while trying to maneuver himself close enough to strike. Corunir hacks at the olog’s knee but so far it has done little more than annoy him. The next swing comes far too close to Golodir and Corunir cries out. 

You spent long enough in Isengard listening and watching to know what is most likely to enrage the troll-kin. It seems their Mordor cousins care as little as they had for being compared to an ancient and venerable fir-tree in the Black Speech.

Thrúgrath turns on you and your breath sticks in your throat.. Golodir and Corunir at least make use of the opportunity to deal the olog some real damage. Corunir lodges his sword to the hilt in Thrúgrath’s leg and he screams and falls to one knee. Thrúgrath spits his own curse back at you, insulting your father and your physical strength and- the third part typically has something to do with food, but it is cut off as Golodir climbs the olog’s bent knee and drives his sword into Thrúgrath’s breast. Thrúgrath bellows and staggers up, unbalanced by Corunir’s sword rendering his right leg useless. Golodir clings to his own sword, his weight dragging it down and widening the rend in Thrúgrath’s chest. Thrúgrath claps a gigantic hand to the wound and you hear something _crunch_.

“No!”

Thrúgrath collapses, falling forward. You avoid him, barely, and before the dust has settled you are pushing, trying to reach Golodir. Corunir joins you and together you can shove Thrúgrath’s corpse just enough to reveal Golodir. You set your feet and brace yourself against the olog’s unyielding flesh.

“Get him out,” you say through gritted teeth. Corunir dives into the shadow of the body. You throw all of your body against it but even with your elven strength and most of it on the ground, the sheer weight of the olog nearly crushes you- and Corunir and Golodir besides. You manage, though, to hold out until Corunir can drag Golodir free. You let Thrúgrath fall back down with a heavy crash and run to your friends.

Corunir is already arguing with Golodir. You already have a runestone in hand. Corunir grabs Golodir’s hands before he can try to stop you. You examine the damage and feel your heart drop. The broken bones are one thing- it will not be pleasant for Golodir but you can fix them. You are worried that something more vital is damaged. Sealed tears will do little good if blood or pieces of bone have made their way to places they should not be. You may not be enough. Corunir’s eyes are too bright and they are fixed on Golodir, who is trying his hardest to focus on both of you at once.

“If those Gondorians knew what they spoke of,” Golodir manages with great difficulty, “at the least my death here will see Mordirith gone, perhaps for good this time. It may be for the best.” Corunir’s hands tighten.

“Then it is fortunate for you that they did not,” you say with more anger than you intend. Golodir meets your eye and you know, in that moment, that he heard all of your conversation with Corunir and Halbarad. You clench your teeth. It does not matter. You pull another runestone from your bag, the same sign that hung over Candaith for months, and invoke it at the same time as the simple but powerful rune of repair in your other hand. Golodir gets one of his hands free of Corunir and swings, but you learned from Andreg and hold them well out of reach in one hand. With the other you catch Golodir’s free hand and hold it close. “You are not committing suicide, no matter how noble the cause.” _I will not allow it!_ Golodir gasps as the dual runes take effect, his hand tightening on yours. Corunir bends close to him and says something too soft for you to hear. You do not know who you should pray to for this. Dual invocations can be unpredictable at the best of times, and your expertise is in the storm.

Golodir’s breaths are harsh but untroubled when it is done. There is still more blood than you would like to see outside of any of your friends, but he is alive and as far as you can see nothing has gone wrong with your unconventional rune use.

Voices from beyond the inner boundaries of the camp begin to rouse you, but only just. The situation is not bright- Corunir looks half a step from breaking, Golodir is barely conscious, and you are drained from the synchronous runes to the point that you are unsure if you can stand. Corunir is the one who moves, checking the approach to Thrúgrath’s arena. He pulls you to your feet and steadies you, then pulls Golodir over his shoulders. Both of them are unarmed, their swords still trapped beneath the olog. Elenagil is the best weapon you have to hand at the moment. You think trying to invoke another rune will probably end your fighting for the rest of the day. The exhaustion from these runes is different from overextension with the lightning- heavy and disjointedly sleepy rather than tingling nerves. You are surprised it has taken you this long to reach your limit, today.

You make your way as quickly as you can out of the encampment, hoping only to escape before you can be discovered near Thrúgrath. You make it out and find the enemy between you and the relative safety of the ruined farm greatly diminished. You are undisturbed as you retreat, and it does nothing to make your head feel less stuffed with dandelion fluff. The haze drops away like water as one of the Nine- the Eight, now- screams overhead, bringing with it a wave of ice that shocks you back to sense. The exhaustion lingers, though. Golodir can walk on his own by the time you reach the farm, but he still leans on Corunir anyway. Lothrandir is waiting for you with Halbarad and Aragorn and for a brief moment you are all wrapped in some confusing knot of limbs and unquestioned support.

It cannot last. For all the way here was clear, the battle still rages beyond you. You manage a short rest with Golodir, but it is hardly enough to restore either of you. There is little choice to be had today, however, and you leave the haven of the farm with Corunir and set a course for the nearest banner of the White Tree. You think it is Aragorn’s but it is yet too far for even you to see.

Someone barrels into you from the side and you nearly shock them senseless before you register the voice in your ear.

“I lost sight of you this morning and I have not seen any lightning in at least two hours. I thought…” You wrap your arms around Horn tightly and hear the click of two swords resheathed. You pull away and examine Horn critically. He holds himself stiffly, favoring his left, and there is blood and dirt caked into near every part of his armor. His eyes are even more tired than they were when you last saw him. You suppose you probably look no better, after this day. In truth, you are just glad to see him alive. The fight with Thrúgrath had distracted you from the loss of the ward but it never left your mind entirely. You introduce Corunir and Golodir to Horn and he nods.

“I have heard much about you on the road. It is good to meet you at last.” He sighs deeply and rubs at his shoulder. “It is a surprise to know that any of us have lived long enough to meet today.” Whatever lightness Horn managed to find in your reunion deserts him all at once and he sags. “There are so many dead already, and still they come. How much longer will this go on?”

“Until our strength gives out or we have victory,” Golodir says grimly, though not unkindly. “You are the Rohirrim man who holds Nona’s heart?” He smiles at the surprise on Horn’s face. “We have heard some few stories of you, as well.” Despite everything, or perhaps because of it, Golodir has a talent for this that you doubt you will ever be able to match. He has said very little to you since Thrúgrath. You hear Horn laugh, genuinely, and wander a ways ahead, Corunir beside you.

“How has the battle treated you thus far?” you ask. Corunir’s hand drops to his side.

“I am rather disappointed to have lost my own sword, but I have taken no serious injury and many of my friends still fight.” He offers you a smile but there is a brittle edge to it, too near cracking, and you cannot say you do not understand. You have already decided that neither Corunir nor Golodir will ever know how else the double runes might have ended. You came near enough to losing Golodir as it was. “What of you?”

Your hair is caked with blood from a wound you took in the second hour that still bleeds fitfully and you have never been so sore or so exhausted in all your life. There is an itch in your hands. “It has been a long day. I will be glad to see it ended.” Corunir huffs a laugh. 

“Truer words I have not heard.”

You mean to ask Corunir another question but your voice dies in your throat. You try to call a warning but you cannot. Something unseen holds you and you do not have the power to throw it off now. You can see Corunir, similarly trapped, and precious little else.

You recognize the name Crúmgam but you cannot place it. You do not care where he is from or why is he here any more than he cares for your story, but you have little choice but to listen as he gives the order for death. You have a clearer sight of Corunir’s executioner than your own and you can do nothing to stop either. You cannot look away and you cannot move and you cannot help him and you are about to watch another friend die. Silver flashes at the edge of your vision and wind kisses your cheek. You cannot even face your death.

Steel rings on steel beyond your sight and you hear Horn’s wordless battlecry between you and your attackers. Every muscle in you goes slack with relief but still you are held in place. You can see Golodir on the defensive before Corunir, and though he is very skilled it is clear the rest you took was not nearly enough. Horn cuts down the uruk in front of him and goes to Golodir’s aid, and together they move out of your sight. You hear Crúmgam scream once and then you are released. You collapse without the support of whatever sorcery Crúmgam had used and you lay where you fall, heart pounding and breath coming far too fast.

Horn kneels beside you, calling your name until you can raise your eyes to his and force a shaky smile onto your face. He helps you to a sit and you lean heavily into him, shaking. You can hear the others talking nearby and you cling to the sound and to the rhythm of Horn’s breaths beside you. The whole encounter could have lasted no more than two minutes but the terror of it rivals that of the flight from Osgiliath. It takes you too long to still yourself, longer than you can afford to sit in one place on this field, but after several minutes you manage to stand under your own power. Corunir and Golodir stand nearby, waiting for you. You do not yet trust your voice, but you nod to them and the four of you continue on, aiming still for the banner of Gondor. You can see now that it is Aragorn’s and your steps quicken.

You stop them before you reach the banner, hearing Gothmog’s voice well before they can. They continue on anyway, and though you sigh for their sake you expect no less by now. The hill is in chaos, though you have missed the confrontation with Gothmog himself. Many of the Grey Company are here, and when they see you they make way. Several are dead already. Cannuion, Orchith, and Ferrif all lie still on the ground. Celenath and Amarion are badly injured and you do what you can, though you barely have the strength to stop the bleeding from Amarion’s leg.

Aragorn holds Halbarad at the center of the near-silence in Gothmog’s wake. You kneel beside them but you know at a glance that there is nothing you can do. Gothmog’s massive sword may not be like the Nine’s morgul blades, but it has a power of its own and even if it were plain steel, looking at Halbarad you know there is no small chance it would be fatal anyway. Neither Halbarad nor Aragorn acknowledge you and you leave them in peace. You find injuries among the others and focus on them, trying and failing to block out the realities of the day. Sighs pass like waves through the remnants of the Grey Company and you know Halbarad is gone. You think to leave them to their grief for as long as can be afforded, but someone pulls you into an embrace and you could not break it even if you wanted to. Horn stands at the edge of the group with the handful of non-Dúnedain who had fought here, waiting and watchful until Aragorn at last stands and orders the final actions of the day.

Some of the unnatural cloud cover has cleared and the sun sets red on the Pelennor. Smoke still hangs over the field but the noise of thousands of embattled soldiers has all but vanished. You return to the city with heavy steps. Many of the survivors who can still stand are searching for survivors. Langlas is among them, seeking Celairant, face darker every time he passes you. You meet Duinhir as well, and can hardly believe that the news has not reached him yet. You are the one who must tell the lord of the Blackroot Vale of his sons’ deaths beneath the mûmakil and you can see the moment in which his heart breaks. He whispers something about glory and memory but in truth he is fighting a losing battle against pain and tears and you leave him to his grief. There is enough of it to go around. Thrúgrath had fought in a rage as his followers were decimated by the Rohirrim, charging in vengeance for their lost King. Thrúgrath crushed many of the Riders, Elfmar son of Elfhelm among them, and now Thrúgrath too is dead at Golodir’s hand. Just one sequence among hundreds of the like. Such is the tale of the day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it took me _so long_ to decide whether or not i was going to kill golodir. halbarad and horn were easier just based on est's relationships with them, but i debated for a Long time before settling on 'fuck it, i started this to keep characters i like alive not gonna stop now' tho i may or may not do smth for 'edge' in which he does die bc otherwise i doubt it will leave me alone. anyway-
> 
> also do you know how many times i misspelled thrúgrath??? it was a lot


	6. distraction

The list of the dead only grows. A dozen of the forty or so of the Grey Company who survived the journey south fell within the bounds of the Rammas Echor. A number of the lords of Gondor you met only in passing during your single day in Minas Tirith have fallen, the Steward among them. The leadership of Rohan is decimated. Théoden King is dead, though the rest of the house of Eorl lives, even Éowyn, despite her wounds, deep enough she had been believed dead in the field. Many of those who answered Théoden’s summons will not return, though, and when you hear the names it is a struggle to match them to their homes. Many of them you met only briefly, and some not at all. You find Gléowine in the aftermath and he recounts them all to you, each with short anecdotes and genealogies that are not entirely helpful to your memory but seem to come from personal ones of his.

The night of the Battle of Pelennor Fields you sleep like the dead and do not dream- and if your friends were perhaps more familiar with elven sleep habits they might have worried- but the nights after are not nearly so restful. The worst is reliving all the helpless terror and rage as Crúmgam’s executioners bear down upon you and Corunir. Horn and Golodir do not always arrive in time to save you.

A young man you do not recognize but who clearly knows you finds you in the late afternoon two days after the battle. He points out a hill to the northeast of the shattered gates of Minas Tirith and you walk out to meet the woman the boy says is seeking you. Valla did not survive the siege, even within the circles of the city, and you have not seen the messenger horse you borrowed from the stables.

You are almost surprised to see Nona. She stands at the crest of a fire-scarred rise facing east, arms crossed. She turns at your approach and takes your hand. The other goes to the hilt of her sword- Horn’s sword, not so long ago.

“Is he-” she can barely get the words out. “Horn, is he..?”

“He is fine,” you say. Nona’s hand tightens on yours. “He is likely with either his father or Gléowine, though he has been spending a good amount of time with the rangers since the battle.” Her most pressing question answered, Nona’s curiosity turns to you and the battle. It has been only two weeks since she and Horn left you in Brockbridge, though it feels as if it must be three times that at least. You walk with her through the fields, trading news and stories as you go. She has seen nothing of Corudan since her departure and you wonder again what has become of him.

“Perhaps he has run off with the tree-herders,” Nona says thoughtfully. “He seemed enamoured enough of them in Byre Tor.” It would certainly fit him, and it is far preferable to many of the alternatives. Nona admits she never did catch up to Lheu Brenin after Brockbridge, though you had assumed as much already. After Horn had left her to answer Théoden’s muster she had continued on and destroyed a number of lesser Falcons and their raiding parties before coming south to find you. You smile and take her hand again as you approach the encampment some of the Rohirrim have set up outside the walls of Minas Tirith.

“I am glad to see you, Nona.” She glances over at you. “This was a bloody fight, and there is worse yet to come.” Baldgar and Grimbold, in defense of Théodred. Prestadír and Idhrenfair, separated from the others and overrun before Faeron and Himeinior could reach them. Celenath, despite your efforts. You shake yourself and find the tent Horn has been sharing with his father. Thankfully, he is alone, and it is another spot of much-needed brightness to see Horn and Nona reunited. There are no words for some time, but when they start they are quite loud. You grin and leave them to their argument and whatever comes next.

You spy Golodir from a distance often that week, but he never comes to you and when you try to seek him out he is nowhere to be found. You cannot regret saving his life, even if in doing so you have stolen his chance at peace for a time. He is willing to die for the sake of others and for duty, you understand that, are as willing in your own way, but lying broken in the olog’s shadow he had _wanted_ to die and you couldn’t- you can’t- give him that wish. If he hates you for taking the choice from him then so be it. He is still alive to feel anger. You remember Tadan and think he is not the first you have angered with your healing.

It is slow work to pick up the pieces and begin to rebuild and no help is turned away. Though you never step foot in the Houses of Healing you do more than your share of healing as you help pick through the rubble. For a few days a weary peace settles over the Pelennor and the Tower of Guard, but a grim dread returns as word of the march on the Black Gate spreads.

You are and have become many things in your travels, but you have always excelled at being a distraction. If this is an exception, then it will be so only in the fact that very few of you plan to survive. You go to Horn and Nona, intending to convince them to stay behind, but they glare you into silence.

“We face this together or not at all.” You are not certain who all Nona is including in ‘we’, but her point is made and she will not bend. You will leave very few friends behind, it seems, even those who might yet build something if they have a future.

It is a long week's march to the edge of the waste before the Morannon. The survivors of the Grey Company join with the rangers of Ithilien but both forces have been greatly weakened by the fighting and they are two few to effectively guard the passage of so large and so loud an army as the Host of the West. You join them more by habit than obligation, but you have become quite skilled at moving silent and unseen, even beyond what you learned growing up in Mirkwood. 

Ithilien seems colder than it ought to be to you. A number of the southern rangers agree that it is unusual, but not so much to cause worry. It is not until Legolas notes the passing of something large above the clouds that it falls into place- your passage is watched by the Eight and their aura chills the hearts of the Host even more than the hard-eyed knowledge that many of them march to their deaths. 

You see little of Horn and Nona by day, though you join them most nights to eat and speak and you can almost believe you are on the banks of the Anduin and Corudan is just out of sight beyond the hill. Almost.

“They are breaking,” Nona says one night, looking towards another fire surrounded by silent soldiers. She is right. There is nothing you can do about it, not really. A word of comfort here and there, or simple company, these you can do but it is miles beyond your strength or ability to give heart to even a fraction of the Host. You will arrive at the edge of Dagorlad tomorrow by nightfall and the day after the Black Gate will be in sight. You try not to shudder at the thought, but by Nona’s look you are not entirely successful.

“Those who cannot face the Morannon will leave,” you say. You have heard rumor of a large dismissal from the rangers. You look at Nona beside you, and at Horn across the fire. You draw a breath.

“If your next words are to suggest we leave with them,” Nona says, her voice deceptively even, “I would suggest you choose different ones.”

“None of us expect to return from this fight, Nona,” you say quietly. She snorts.

“So I have heard. You should not be so certain of your own defeat. What will we face? The wraiths? We have met their kind before and survived. We will do so again.” You faced one, alone and on foot, and still it had been a near thing. You say nothing. Nona takes it as a point in her favor and slings an arm around your shoulder, pulling you close. “No greater need pulls me elsewhere and so I will stand by my friends as they stand by me.” The fire snaps and you meet Horn’s eyes. You see in them the reflection of the fires on Pelennor and you think he might be persuaded to abandon this mission were it not for Nona. For better or worse they will stand together. A curious reversal of their positions from just a few weeks before.

You have as little chance of persuading Nona to abandon this as you would the Grey Company. It hurts to know you will see them die, any of them, but it is a comfort too to know you will not be alone. You wrap an arm around Nona and press your lips to her temple. “Thank you.” For staying, for encouraging you, for being a friend. Horn comes to sit on your other side and for a time the three of you sit close in silence and peace.

You follow Mincham and Faeron to Narchost and hold the exit while they steal into the tower against your better judgement and Mincham’s. You may have become somewhat sneakier of late, but you would still slow them at best or endanger them at worst with your company. It seems a small eternity until they return, faces grim. It has been ordered by the Enemy that the Host be allowed to come to the Morannon. A trap, but for Sauron as much as for you. This will not be pleasant.

The shrunken Host is within striking distance of the gate. The full and sudden realization of the scope of what you are doing hits you that evening, perched on a large rock and watching the movement of the camp. This is madness and desperation and even if everything you hope for comes to pass the Host may well be slaughtered to the last ‘ere the Ringbearer makes it to the mountain. You have been the distraction before, yes, and often at terrible odds, but this is different. You will watch your friends die tomorrow, or they will watch you die, and all against the slimmest hope that it will buy enough time. It is vitally important to you suddenly that they know, all of them, that you love them and would not face this with any others by your side.

You have had your moments with Horn and Nona already and leave them in peace by their fire. Horn is singing something slow and solemn and Nona looks to be asleep on the ground beside him, though you doubt she is. Areneth and Culang sit together and their conversation seems too intense for you to interrupt. Langlas and Himeinior sit alone, well apart from each other or indeed anyone else. They wear the same expression, blank and unfocused, eyes distant. Langlas's hands move aimlessly along the smooth curve of Celairant's bow as if it might somehow manifest the power to return his friend to him. Himeinior at least responds when you sit beside him, giving you a weak smile before his eyes flick to two empty spaces across a nonexistent fire. Where Prestadír and Idhrenfair should be. You try to offer Elenagil to Himeinior in his friend’s memory but he refuses.

“She may as well stay with someone more likely to survive tomorrow,” he says. It hits you like a gut punch. He gives you a sad smile. “I think I will be seeing them again very soon.”

It is not the only conversation of the same sort you have that evening. Amarion and Orthonn are trading stories with Belenen of their homes but none of the three expect to return north. Belenen waves you over and you sit beside her and add your own stories for a time.

Braigiar you find near a fire largely surrounded by Rohirrim. He looks up and pulls you into a one-armed hug and you relax into it. Braigiar glances back at the Rohirrim, who seem to have taken no notice of you. 

“I find I miss Baldgar rather more than I expected,” he says. He shakes his head. “I do not know what tomorrow will bring, but tonight will not be restful.”

A beat of silence. “You never did tell me why you were so reluctant to return to the Grey Company,” you say. Braigiar sighs. You almost take back the question, but you always have been more curious than tactful.

“We see enough in our duties to disturb anyone’s rest. At least in our own minds we have the privacy to face them for ourselves. It is not another’s place to see your fears and hopes laid bare in sleep and I would stop it if I could. Distance helps, though it does not prevent visitations entirely.”

“Is that how you found Lothrandir?”

Braigiar glances over. “He told you about that, did he? Yes. Once I recognized the halls I could find my way to him, though I did not know the building.” He falls silent and will say little more.

You do not have many close friends among the Rohirrim or the men of Gondor. You passed through far too quickly and in the midst of too much chaos to become more than passing familiar with most of them. Baldgar is the exception, and he only because of your time in Isengard. Or, he had been. A week and a half since Pelennor now and still you have not allowed yourself time to feel the losses, not truly, your eyes and heart resolutely (desperately) forward. If you survive this next gamble, you will grieve. 

Golodir is already asleep- or at least ostensibly so- and Corunir is sharpening his blades elsewhere. Idhrien is preparing bandages and whatever medicines she can find supplies for, for all the good it is likely to do tomorrow. Calenglad at least seems settled, peaceful in a way that few others in the camp are. At first it comforts you but when you think on it again it scares you. He is ready, even eager perhaps, to die and see this struggle finally ended, and he is not the only one. You think of Golodir on the Pelennor and try not to despair.

Of them all, it is Radanir that nearly breaks you. He stares without seeing into the grey settling over the wasteland between the Host and the gate. You sit beside him and he speaks of memory and of years to come, but not in a way that says he is a part of them. If there is any justice… You are well past justice by now and there is only necessity, but you hope dearly that the Dúnedain will be remembered, that the sixty-odd of them who rode south will not be forgotten in the counts of the sacrifices made to this war. Has it only been a month? Two at the most? For all that has happened not much time has passed since you recalled them from the wilds. Since the beginning, too, before you joined the war in Angmar- surely it has been no more than six months? You are eight hundred years old but you feel as if you have aged twice that in the past year.

“It seems we never will get those drinks,” Radanir says. He breathes deeply and sighs. “I suppose, after everything, it is hardly a surprise.” He tries to say it lightly, as a joke, but his tone fails him and his face does no better. He can muster not even a hint of a smile. You think it is the first time you have ever seen him like this. Even after Tûr Morva he had kept some piece of his humor but now...

You can’t.

You cannot face the gate so certain of death, yours or theirs. You would not be able to make yourself stand there if you truly believed that this would be the end. You would not have your friends do so either. You do not believe it will be the end, for all the likelihood or the logic that tries to tell you otherwise. Whatever optimistic part of you is still there, after Isengard, after Angmar, after Pelennor, it has not died and it still expects to see tomorrow and the next day and the next. Without pain? No, it is not quite that blind, though you still _wish_ for such a gentle end. But your heart still plans for an evening by a fire, singing and laughing with the friends who are left. (You will get there and it will _hurt_ , the gaps) You hold the image close and you look at Radanir and you can find none of the same belief in him, only resignation and grim acceptance.

You pull Radanir closer and he goes willingly, curling into you in a way you never would have expected of him. He does not seem like the largest of the Grey Company with his head resting wearily on your shoulder. He only seems tired. “We may yet, my friend.” Drinks and peace and an _after_. You could not see it, the first time he spoke of it, in the Gravenwood, but the vision of it is so clear now in your mind’s eye. “With Calenglad and Daervunn and whoever else you invited without telling me.” You feel a faint breath that might have been laughter and revel in that much of a victory. “And I suppose we really should invite the others at this point. Aragorn, too. He would be rather put out if he was not included, I think. We may have some difficulties separating him from Legolas and Gimli, so perhaps we should just ask them along too and be done with it.” That was more certainly laughter. Radanir pulls away.

“This is turning into quite the expensive stop, even if you choose the cheapest establishment in the West. It’s a promise.” You laugh too loudly, and the sound turns heads. There is too little of it here. Some of the light has returned to Radanir’s eyes, though, and you will make as much a spectacle of yourself as you must if it means even one of them will believe in a future they will see. You pass between your friends and no small number of the near-strangers in the rest of the Host, and if any of them see the strange light in your eye they do not comment as you move on with light touches and bright words. You think you make a fool of yourself at some points but you do not care because this may help even one of them and you can’t- you _can’t_ believe in annihilation but if the rest of them all do you will not be able to escape it and so they must not be allowed to believe in it either.

Legolas laughs at you when you leave a confused and rather concerned Dagoras to the repair of his armor and you turn your manic attention on him.

“I see you, too, have fallen prey to the Dúnedain’s love of physical affection.” It is not an observation you are expecting and you stop. It is true- months in their company has accustomed you to their easy embraces and idle contact but you had not thought it a habit you had picked up yourself. A false assumption, it seems. You have learned to accept comfort from open arms from them and to offer it in turn. You have, in fact, found you are rather fond of it.

“You sound as if you speak from experience, my Prince,” you say. He laughs again and you leave him to whatever it is he is doing that will let him face the gate.

When at last the camp quiets as much as it will, you find a sheltered corner between two rocks and make yourself comfortable. You are hardly without a place to sleep, but you would rather be alone for a time. You are not sure if you intend to sleep, though you will rest as much as you can. Braigiar was right, though. This night will not be easy. Despite your frantic hope and your desperation to spread it, you spend hours staring at the low-hung clouds that hide near all the stars and the truth beats at you, relentless: _you will die tomorrow_. You can only answer back: _but not all of us. Not all of us_.

Day comes. The Host moves forward to the massive hills of scrap and you watch Aragorn and his captains approach the Morannon to treat with the Enemy. Daervunn bears the banner in Halbarad’s place and the reminder hurts, no matter how you try to push it from your mind. The negotiations are pointless and you all know it, but it will not be said that King Elessar did not treat even Sauron with dignity and good faith, and every second you hold the Eye is a victory for the Free Peoples.

The Black Gate swings wide and the armies of Mordor march forth. Oh Elbereth, you are really doing this. It begins.

You stand back from the front, at first, sowing chaos in the further ranks as the enemy approaches. Lightning flashes among them and a cheer goes up from the Men at the bottom of your hill when a lesser olog falls twitching at their feet. You stand with Grey Company- where else would you be? Nona and Horn are with you, too, and they fit nearly as well among the Dúnedain as you.

It goes as well as can be expected, in the beginning. Better than you feared, certainly. Those in the front have the support of the archers nearer the crowns of the two hills of scrap on which the Host has chosen to make their stand. There is a disciplined cycle between those taking the brunt of the assault and those in reserve, but as the fight wears on each rest is shorter and less restful and the toll in blood is mounting. Everyone takes wounds and bit by bit they slow.

Nona stops beside you, breaths quick, in a fleeting moment of peace. “I might have left,” she says with painful honesty. “I would have taken you and Horn with me, and we would have gone in search of Corudan and left this war behind us. But I think now that Horn was right when he left to fight for his King. If this does not work and Sauron returns to power, it will not matter where we hide or how many of our family we gathered. It would not save us.” She looks around. “I hope this was the right choice, my friend.”

You look out over the battle, too. You are hardly winning, but you are surviving, and so you have not yet lost. An olog breaks through the ring on the far side of the hill and though it is quickly swarmed by the defenders, a pack of light-footed goblins jumps through behind it and makes for a cluster of the wounded. They are beaten back, but not before taking their price in the lives of those who can barely fight. The wounded are vulnerable and they make those tending them vulnerable, too, and with their fighting arms removed from the battle the blow is doubly felt. They need to be tended as quickly as can be, but even at your best you would not be able to do more than slow the rate at which they are forced from the battle. It would exhaust you, too, and long before the end comes. 

A mound of scrap sits nearby and you throw pieces aside until you find a length of metal sheeting two feet across and nearly four times as long, likely a piece of ancient siege equipment. Your Isengard iron hardly scratches it but your old chisel, a gift from Khazad-dûm, scores the weathered metal with ease and you work as quickly as you can without compromising the integrity of the runes. When you are done you plunge the sheeting into ground made soft by blood and close your eyes. You have done enough unorthodox runework in recent months- what is one more gamble? You invoke the runes and the metal bursts alight, power rushing out from it in a wave. Scrapes on your hands from the harsh ground itch and fade by degrees and you think you feel some strength returning- though it is immediately pulled away again as the improvised runestone obelisk continues to pulse. Several Men nearby turn to look for a source for their second wind. It will not last terribly long, obtrusive as it is and as draining to you, nor will it save the most grievously injured, but it may help the endurance of others and that is all you need today. The rain of arrows from the hill slows.

Areneth is the first of the Grey Company to fall- or, he is the first you see. Culang stands over him and keeps a whole host of the enemy from Areneth’s body. He does not move from his place even after you clear a space around him with a handful of rangers both northern and southern. You realize then that you have lost track of most of your friends in the fighting and you run from pocket to pocket, searching them out and marking them and lending what aid you can. They call out for word of each other as you pass and with reports of changes in the enemy’s movements, and you find yourself acting as a message runner by default. The banners of Rohan and Dol Amroth still fly on the neighboring hill but you can tell little else from here and the dip between the two rises is becoming more and more choked.

It is early in the day still but already you can feel a prickle in your fingertips each time you summon lightning and the runed metal is still steadily draining you. You grind your teeth and push through it. There is little sense in saving strength against late-day need. If you drive yourself beyond your limits it will be in the service of keeping the others fighting and that, you think, will be worth it.

All your optimism from last night is gone, now, and there is only the endless waves of Sauron’s forces. Survive the battle? Your thoughts see little beyond surviving the next foe. You see Belenen go down defending Idhrien and more of the wounded huddled near the base of the metal plate. Nona stands over Horn, one hand tight against her side while still managing to beat back four uruks at once. _He lies on the broken ground, his shield splintered. No_. You thought he was safe from assured doom after Pelennor- you promised Nona you would protect him. Nona’s attackers collapse before a wave-front of electricity and you ignore the way your skin prickles all up your forearms. Horn’s eyes meet yours as you help Nona pull him up and towards the top of the hill and you can only just manage a quick smile for him. Nona’s eyes are tight and when you meet them you see fear, though she would die before admitting it.

“This is not over yet,” you say to her. Her face does not change. No more arrows fly from the hill, not even from Legolas.

Ice knifes through you and suddenly the sweat of battle is chilled and slimy on your skin. You shudder as the Eight’s fell mounts shriek overhead and Horn tries weakly to cover his ears. You return to the fight but within minutes warning cries go up and you duck as wings pass too near above you. The man nearest you, one of Angborn’s lieutenants from Lamedon, screams as he is lifted up. You can only watch as the Nazgûl wheels over the other hill and drops him. He screams the whole way down. The arrows are spent. They are free to dive down upon the Host uncontested.

“Calenglad!” Panic fills familiar voices and you turn just in time to see a clawed talon close around Calenglad and take him. There may be no more arrows left to the Host, but you are yet here. It feels as if a hundred stinging insects crawl along your arms but you raise them and call forth as much lightning as you can. The bolt strikes the fell beast’s wing before it can gain its full height and it staggers in the air, screaming. Calenglad drops somewhere beyond the perimeter of the Host’s control. The Nazgûl turns its attention on you and you cannot go to him. You strike again and the beast spins off course.

There are eight of them, however, and you cannot keep all of them from their targets at once. You strike at one descending on the other hill, where Éomer and Théodred and Imrahil make their stand with the Citadel Guard. Another shrieks far, far closer to you and you duck, tearing skin against the jagged ground as a gust of wind batters you. As with many of your plans, this was not particularly thought-through. Nothing for it now, though. You cannot fend them all off, but you can at the least try to take their aerial advantage from them. The tingling itch, like a limb asleep, is spreading past your shoulders and intensifying as it goes, to the point that you do not notice the goblin arrow that transfixes your drake-scale bracer until the fletching brushes your nose. You snap it off and do not see if you are bleeding before you put yourself back on the offensive.

You bring no others of the Eight down but you do foil a number of their attacks, until voices call out your name and two sharp impacts dig into your chest and another into your back.

Cold far beyond rushing wind or shock of the body seizes you as the slag-hills shrink below. You hear laughter above you and you recognize the timbre- this was one you faced in Dol Guldur. You still have a stone clutched in one hand, your arm pinned to your side by the massive strength of the beast’s talons curled around you. Despite the static numbness and the overwhelming cold you can feel the claws piercing clothing and skin and grinding against bone. You press one shaking hand to the beast’s flesh and invoke the rune. Your focus is gone, though, and the spark is barely enough to make it twitch. The runestone falls from your hand just as the Nazgûl shudders in the air, staggering as if struck from above. It comes again and you fall and the ground is suddenly very, very large in your sight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> est, every single time she tries to be a distraction: 'haha! it worked! oh. it worked. _oh shit-_ ' every time, without fail
> 
> somehow had to reconcile 'wow everybody thinks the march on the morannon is a suicide mission' with 'as a person playing a video game I know for certain I will be fine' and it made for a very strange bit here I think


	7. promised

You sit in a tavern on a rough wooden chair holding an empty mug worn smooth by many hands. Daervunn sits beside you, nursing his own drink.

“I am glad Radanir decided to bring the rest of us into this,” he says with a smile. “We have earned a night without worry, after everything.” He cranes his head. “I have not seen him come in yet. Do you suppose he got distracted by something in town?” You look, but you see no sign of Radanir. There is Himeinior, who waves to you on his way to another table, and Culang and Orthonn with a map spread between them, arguing over something you do not catch.

A full pitcher is set on the table and Calenglad takes the seat across from you. “Are we still waiting on Radanir? Was this not his idea to begin with?” You spot Baldgar at another table with Grimbold and you nearly get up. You had meant to talk with Grimbold, after the Fords and before Pelennor both, but time conspired against you and... 

There are faces familiar all around. Golasgil of Anfalas, Derufin and Duilin, Andreg. Your gaze moves further into the room. Raddir and Achardor, Narmeleth, Laerdan. The door opens and someone takes half a step in before being called back by another voice outside. Corunir, you think.

“I am glad he has others who worry about him even half as much as he tries to worry about everyone else.” You turn. Lorniel. She smiles. “He was practically my brother, growing up. He has always been like this.”

There are more shouts from outside. “I believe someone is trying to get your attention.” On your other side. _Talagan_. Your teacher gestures towards the door. “You had best see what they want before they storm in here and ruin our evening.” Unprotesting you stand. The wood of the door is cold to the touch, but you can hear someone shouting beyond and it seems important. You push the door open.

\---

You open your eyes and your chest burns. Nona's face hangs over you as you gasp for breath. Her smile is broad and she laughs loudly, strange against the stillness beyond.

“It is good to see you awake,” Nona says. Your breath is short enough you are not sure you can manage speech, though you find it hurts less if you breathe slow and not too deeply. You try to sit up, but the first strain on your muscles sends pain stabbing into your chest and back and you fall back to the hard stone. “Easy,” Nona murmurs. “Braigiar is good, but he is not so skilled as you with your rocks.” She spares a grin for Braigiar kneeling beside her, his face nearly as grey as the clouded late-day sky. He drops something from his hand and it clatters against stone.

“What..?” A runestone. You stare at Braigiar and narrow your eyes. He laughs weakly and pats your hand.

“You may not tell me off for saving your life, my friend.”

“Not yet at least,” you mutter. They both laugh at that. Nona helps you to your feet and for all her care you cannot hide your pain. Braigiar is unsteady, too, and finds a discarded spear to lean on as Nona leads you across the battle-plain. It is even more broken than before the march of the Host, bodies of Men and orcs and all other manner of creatures still but not yet given to decay. You want to beg answers of Braigiar and Nona, but it takes all your strength and will just to keep your feet, even with Nona’s help. You are sore all over, of course, and that at least is no surprise, but the worst of the pain stems from two deep punctures in your chest and a third in your back. The most threatening damage Braigiar has sealed over, but it will be long until you are fully healed, and even then it may not be all that you might wish.

When at last you reach the grassy field where the survivors of the Host make their camp you can hardly remain upright even with Nona’s support. You strain for any sight of your friends but Nona steers you straight for a healers’ tent and entrusts you to their care. You are laid on a bed and despite all your efforts otherwise you are not long awake. You grasp for someone before you are left alone. Whatever comes next, you must know. “Is it done?” A warm hand takes yours.

“Yes. Sauron is defeated. Rest.” And then you do.

\---

You are not alone in the healers’ tent when you awake. The wounded fill the space entirely, laid out side by side. You stand, and regret it, and go in search of news.

Somehow, against all odds, the Host of the West not only succeeded, you _won_. The One Ring is destroyed, and Sauron with it. You can scarcely believe it, and there are similar expressions of stunned disbelief on every other face. That is the easy news to find. The list of the dead is long and yet incomplete, and many are reluctant to think on what this victory has cost- and far too concerned with trying to send you back to bed. You will rest, you promise an exhausted and thoroughly disgruntled Idhrien, but you must know first.

From the Grey Company, Calenglad and Himeinior and Langlas are gone and you are not surprised. Nethraw and Orthonn are more of a shock, and so too Amarion and Daervunn. Areneth and Belenen you knew already, and Corunir and Golodir are yet unaccounted for. Dagoras and Amlan are hurt and Braigiar is still too pale, but they are still alive. You find Horn among the wounded in another tent and he waves at you with a heavily bandaged arm. Word of the Fellowship is everywhere; they at least you will not have to seek out, and you are glad of that because your strength is fading fast and it would not do to collapse in the middle of the camp and weep for lost friends. You would hardly be alone in it, but you would rather some semblance of privacy first. You exhaust your tears and your body and sleep again in the shade of a young tree with low-hanging branches. So many dead. You cannot regret victory, not in this, but the loss of them hurts in a way that clenches your stomach tight and steals your breath quite apart from the punctured lung.

The wounded are still being carried in from Dagorlad as search parties turn up survivors and at long last Golodir stumbles in, Corunir held close and unmoving. It is hours before you know if he will live or not. You want to help, but the farther out from the battle time gets, the less use your runes become as concerns turn from simple rent flesh to infection and half-healed wounds. It would be so even if you had the strength to invoke more than a pretty display of lights.

Golodir finds you as the stars come out and for a long time you stand in silence. You do not dare to ask. He asks after your health, first, studying you as if he can see the bandages still wound securely around your chest. You ask after his. Small injuries, but nothing serious, a blessing after Pelennor. He falls silent and you watch the stars.

“Corunir will want to see you for himself, once the healers free him.” There is a certain wry amusement in Golodir’s voice, and that more than anything tells you that he and Corunir both will be alright. He rests a gentle hand on your shoulder, mindful of injury. “We tried to make it to where you fell but…” You have heard the stories from those who had seen it from the ground. The eagles, the fires, the mountain. You smile.

“Thank you.” He nods. You wonder if things are less awry between you than you thought. There is time to deal with all of it, now, and you intend to.

There is celebration and mourning both, and rest, at last, but always there will be another task or another fight. Though Sauron is defeated many of his lieutenants and lesser commanders are not. You shy away from the idea of Mordirith- Gothmog, you try to correct yourself, but he will always be Mordirith to your mind- for several days. You know not what has become of him now that both Sauron and the Witch-king are dead. Perhaps he too is now gone, or perhaps nothing at all as happened and he will still need to be faced. It is a struggle for another day.

You do find a tavern half-rebuilt when you return to Minas Tirith. Radanir joins you by coincidence rather than design (you think) and though you do buy the drinks that day neither of you holds the promise fulfilled. You will not until you can plan a true outing with all who have survived. You hope to find a place back in the north, for all it will likely be months before most of you return. You still intend to track down Corudan, and Nona and Horn agree, though Horn is too weak to travel for some time. You want to find Saeradan and Candaith, too, and see them with your own eyes. You watch the sun on the Anduin and revel in having a future to plan for, anything beyond inevitable battle and probable death. For all the pain there is life still, and hope and love and laughter and you know there will be for many long ages to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)

**Author's Note:**

> yknow what this was not supposed to be? 25k words. and yet.
> 
> that's the end of this, though. black book, strongholds of the north, maybe i (and by extension esterín) will get there, but est at least needs a Break or she's gonna break. anything else i do with her in the foreseeable future will be little oneshots that go over in 'just past the edge of our fears'
> 
> edit: and then everything was free for several months and now I'm almost done with the black book installment lol


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